Proof of Life
by Alpha Flyer
Summary: How far would you go to reclaim what has been taken?
1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This story follows "Off the Shoulder of Orion" and "After the Ashes," and while I have tried not to make it necessary, certain things might resonate a bit more if you've read those. It contains excursions into Orion culture that are pure head canon, like my Andorians – all resemblance to creatures seen on Star Trek is purely visual! We don't get to see enough of the Orions when they pop up over the years to have a coherent picture, so I made one up. I regret nothing.

Apologies for being so late in delivering this fic; RL has been a tad toxic lately. To top it off, I've started moonlighting in the "Avengers" fandom. (Focusing on Hawkeye - I guess I have a thing for writing about damaged males! Thanks to those of my VOY readers who followed me there; last chapter of "In the Service" coming soon...)

As per usual I own none of this, except the story and the aforementioned head canon and a couple of characters that won't score a hit when you google them.

* * *

**Proof of Life**

**By Alpha Flyer**

* * *

_**Prologue **_

_She knows she is dying. _

_She knows that in the ordinary course of events, this would be a time to reflect on a life well-lived. _

_To watch highlights flash past, be thankful for gifts large and small. To recall faces, moments, laughter and tears; things that she touched or that touched her. _

_A time to extinguish regrets and to make peace. _

_But her death is not ordinary, and there is no time for thoughts of self. _

_All that remains is duty and loyalty and service – things that defined her in life, and so must in death. _

_She thinks she has failed._

_All that remains is the warning, and time's running out with the blood from her throat, pulsing, weakening. _

_The steps recede. The door closes. She is alone._

_She dips her finger in the pool of red._

_Taps her warning on the floor, draws the pattern before darkness comes._

_It comes_

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_**Two weeks earlier**_

Tom Paris had never been huge on self-analysis (self-flagellation, yes, _that_ he had elevated to an art form). As a result, he didn't bother examining too closely just _why_ he had been so extremely keen to spend a day on his parents' estate, following the debriefings of his last mission.

Whether it was spending the last few weeks in the company of a little girl whose own family had been blown into space, or whether it was the simple luxury of being able to come home after a mission, after seven years of … _not_ - it didn't really matter, did it? Fact was, right now this was the place he wanted to be more than anywhere else, and if that thought made him look like an idiot for holding all that bitterness for so many years, then so be it.

He had freely told B'Elanna just how much he was looking forward to sitting in a sunlit kitchen over a plate of his mother's non-replicated cookies, to listen to exclamations on how Miral had grown in the last three months, and to having a good solid argument with his father.

Well, so much for avoiding self-analysis. His wife stared at him as if he was covered in something alien and very, very slimy.

"Let me get this straight. You, Thomas Eugene Paris, _want_ to argue with your father?"

The utter disbelief in his mate's voice caused a rueful smile to quirk across Tom's face, and he shrugged. How could he explain that somewhere in the course of the last couple of years – and after some fairly intense sessions with a certain Betazoid counselor - he'd finally managed to convince himself that his father might actually be interested in what he had to say?

Easier just to admit that he had come to enjoy their sparring sessions, psych stuff be damned. And that the Old Man was nowhere near as bone-headed as he used to be … or as Tom used to think he was … and that he held views that could actually be interesting, however … old-fashioned.

"Well, he's good to bounce ideas off of. He's been around the Quadrant and Starfleet, and while I may not agree with everything he's got to say, it's useful to figure out where he's coming from. Who knows – it may help me avoid some of the toes I've forever been stomping on."

B'Elanna contemplated her husband for a moment. Was this the same man who, over the years they had spent in the Delta Quadrant, had, in private moments, snarled his anger and whispered his regrets over his inability to talk to his father?

"Kahless, Tom, if I didn't know any better, and if I hadn't just watched you lying flat on the floor trying to help Miral recreate the Crystal Palace of Malnair with a bunch of isolinear chips you stole from Engineering – and don't think for a moment I didn't notice! - I'd be _almost _tempted to think you were growing up."

"Yeah, well," he shrugged again, giving her his most innocent grin. "It was bound to happen at some point."

And then he lunged for her, whirled her around and gave her a bite in the neck that he knew would send shivers down her spine. He watched with satisfaction as the skin on her right arm, bare in the Starfleet issue tank top she had stripped down to as soon as she had entered their quarters, developed a satisfying rash of goose bumps.

"But don't worry, Bee. I _do _plan on retaining a certain streak of irresponsibility, just to keep things interesting."

…..

And so here they were, Julia Paris exchanging amused glances with her daughter-in-law as their respective mates went at it over coffee and non-replicated cookies. The discussion was intense if not … vigorous, ranging from the desirability of developing transwarp technology (_yes, but don't you encourage them test it on humans, son!_) to trying to interest the Orion system in membership in the Federation (_are you fucking kidding me, Dad?_).

The latter debate was still ongoing, and managed to draw in even Tom's mother, who glared at her husband of several dozen years for "taking the side of those horrible people that practice slavery".

"There's no evidence that the Orion government endorses the slave trade, or even that they sanction the activities of the Syndicate," Owen pointed out, not for the first time.

"And besides, if we denied Federation membership to every system that hasn't brought crime under control, we wouldn't be able to consider Bajor or any of the colonies in the Tarikoff belt," he added, in a transparent attempt to wring what points he could from his various family members' history with the Maquis. "Something I have been asked to look at by Starfleet, by the way."

"Right," Tom replied, leaning back in his chair, the chocolate chip cookie crumbs on his tunic serving to take a bit of the edge off the dangerous glint in his eyes.

"The Belt colonies are one thing. They still want to join the Federation, after what it did to them for over a decade? Good for them. And yeah, the odd spot of piracy shouldn't stand in the way of their happiness."

He took a sip of his drink.

"But are you seriously telling me that's the same thing as the Orions' cozy relationship with the Crime syndicate? The Syndicate virtually controls the system, runs its own inter-planetary trade with anyone from the Romulans to terrorists, and most of the people with any power on their planet are members. So exactly what _Orion government_ are we talking about here?"

"The one that deserves our support," Owen continued doggedly. "Maybe it's not quite a government yet, fine, it's more like a dissident movement. But there are people there who are trying to join the rest of the world, and we owe it to them to help. It's called 'constructive engagement,' Tom. For the Federation to turn away from them means that the people who are trying to improve things are on their own. We can't let that happen."

Tom shook his head. He was tempted to cite the Cardassian Treaty as an example of the kind of thing that happened when the Federation snuggled up to criminals, but that would be a low blow so he refrained.

"Well, I don't buy it," he said. "Every Orion I ever met who wasn't a slave was busily making profits of the misery of others."

Owen saw his opening, and pounced gleefully.

"That's right, Tom. What _about_ those slave women you rescued? That girl you picked up? _They_ didn't make any profits."

Tom found himself getting just a little indignant now. Maybe having an argument wasn't such a great idea?

"No, they were the victims of the misery the Syndicate inflicts. And yes, they deserve our help. And we gave it. But that's hardly the Orion government now, is it."

"No," Owen replied. "But they are the kind of people that _could_ be. And helping them one at a time is like putting a bandaid on a sucking chest wound. We have to find a better approach."

_Score one for the Old Man,_ B'Elanna's eyes told Tom over her mug. He leaned back in his chair and brushed off the cookie crumbs.

"Fine, you made your point, Dad. But that's all happy theory, until you can find someone on the other end of the comm line on Orion V that you can actually talk to. Who doesn't turn up dead, as soon as you hang up."

Julia Paris chose that moment to announce her readiness to serve dinner; Tom for one wasn't too unhappy to change topics, or he might say too much and freak out his mother. She was, of course, used to seeing first her husband and then her son embrace a life of danger with Starfleet, but having both of them subject to a "missina in action, presumed lost" report had wrung from her just about all the tolerance she was prepared to give. Details on the security briefing Tom and Kathryn Janeway had been forced to sit through would _not_ be well received.

Tom would be the first to admit that a day's worth of threat assessment reports and refresher training in _Hostile Environment Vigilance And Precautions_ (!) upon their return from the Denarian system had driven whatever interest he might have had in Orion society right out of him. The words of the briefer from security (Section 31?) rang in his mind:

"You are targets, Admiral Janeway, Captain Paris. If kill orders have not yet been issued against you by the Orion Crime Syndicate, they soon will be. Your disruption of their destabilization efforts and their mining operations in the Denarian system will not be forgiven, and the Syndicate will want to make certain that others in Starfleet won't emulate what you did. The Syndicate has a wide reach, and a long memory_. _Do not forget this, not even for a moment."

Tom's eyes settled on Miral, who was greeting a plate of freshly roasted chicken with an enthusiasm suitable for someone who had not eaten in a month. Would she grow up without a father, thanks to some lowlife's business model of crime and retribution?

_Candidates for Federation membership, my targeted ass._

…..

Oh-eight hundred hours, and the comms channel chimed right on cue. Tom and Harry Kim, his First Officer, were sitting in the Captain's ready room, their backs turned on the arches of McKinley space station that held Voyager in their spidery, shimmering web.

"Captain." The flat voice of Vice Admiral Nacheyev came over the line.

"Admiral."

Two could play at that game, Tom figured. This was, what, the third or fourth time he was getting his orders straight from the top? Far from feeling flattered, or sensing his career and ego being stroked, he considered this amount of personal attention from the Head of Starfleet to be rather enervating and disconcerting. How many other junior captains could lay claim to this degree of visibility, if they fucked up?

Nacheyev gave her usual pinched smile.

"Please go secure, Voyager."

Tom and Harry exchanged looks. Starfleet comms enjoyed considerable encryption values on a good day; going secure meant extra layers supposedly impossible to crack. Unless you managed to obtain the command codes, of course. Like everything in the Federation's security systems, the illusion of protection was worth only as much as its weakest human link …

Tom uttered a few commands to the computer, and the image on the monitor changed – the word "secure" was superimposed roughly across the Admiral's cheekbones.

"I feel safer already," Tom whispered to his best friend.

"Captain Paris, Commander Kim. New mission orders. We will transmit coordinates to you … now."

She nodded to someone off screen, and a little blip indicated receipt by Voyager's system.

"Acknowledged," Tom confirmed.

"The mission parameters are … delicate, Captain," she continued. "You are aware that several of the colonies in the Tarikoff Belt have applied for membership in the Federation, presumably so as to strengthen their ties to the Federation in the event the Cardassian Union make a resurgence in the sector. Ordinarily we would not consider them ready, but given … their past history, the Council is prepared to consider their application on an expedited basis."

"Atonement for past sins? I suppose there are worse impulses in politics."

Harry cast a scandalized look at his friend and Captain, but Tom ignored him. So did the Fleet Admiral. Almost.

"Quite," she said frostily, but there might just have been a glint in her eyes. Hard to tell, over a secure line.

"In any event, you will be familiar with certain recent incidents of … piracy in the sector. There have been a number of high-profile interceptions of private and commercial vessels, and in many instances, ransom has been paid. It appears that quite a profitable business has sprung up."

It was Harry's turn to demonstrate incredulity.

"People are still paying ransom for kidnappings? I thought there was a policy against that in the Federation."

Tom clenched his jaw, and breathed out slowly. His childhood had been haunted by that very policy, following then-Captain Owen Paris' abduction and ... mistreatment at the hands of Cardassian forces. Not even a Starfleet Captain in possession of military secrets merited a relaxation of the "no bargains" policy. The shell of a man who returned - after a bloody extraction that cost more than a dozen lives – had borne little resemblance to the indulgent and loving father who had left San Francisco four months earlier.

Nacheyev was more than familiar with the Paris family history, of course, and therefore it was to Tom that she addressed her response – in a tone carefully modulated to convey sympathy and understanding.

"That policy is still in place. But we have no control over private citizens and commercial interests, and it's been those that have essentially created this … industry. A law trying to restrain such payments has been before the Council for months now, but shows no progress towards enactment."

_Of course._

"Let me guess. Enlightened self-interest. A number of the Councilors have campaign contributors or constituents whose business interests have been affected, and who'd rather pay up than lose their ships and cargo. Cost of doing business in the outer reaches."

Nacheyev said nothing, how could she, but the lingering look that she gave Tom did nothing to suggest that he was wrong.

"Be that as it may," she continued as if he hadn't spoken, "Since Federation interests are affected, there is an excellent argument for Starfleet to increase its presence in the region, to act as a deterrent even if we have no enforcement authority in the region as yet. Voyager's crew has extensive experience in long-range monitoring of communications, tracking and tracing."

Tom almost snorted, but limited himself to a polite nod.

"You want us to find out if it's just spur of the moment banditry, or if there's a guiding hand behind it."

"Precisely," she said, in a tone that made it clear to both officers that the interview was over.

Almost.

"A reminder, Captain: Starfleet has no jurisdiction in the Belt. That means we have no right to intervene, except in defence of life. You will understand that the colonies, given their history, are … wary of us. In other words, we expect reports, not interference. Nacheyev out."

The Federation insignia replaced the Admiral's head on the monitor, and Tom terminated the connection. For a moment, the two friends sat in silence, digesting what they had heard.

"Don't you think life was easier when we had a command team to tell us what to do next?" Harry quipped. "Instead of having to make it up ourselves, I mean."

"Yeah, well. Time to grow up, Har. So whaddya think?" Tom leaned back in his chair. "This is a quiz. Let's see how well you do, _Commander_."

Harry glared at him a little, but really, he'd asked for it.

"Sounds like a pretty straightforward mission. Go in sniff around, find some facts, look for patterns, make connections, come back, report. Like I said, straightforward."

"Yeah, like the Snowflakes was a straightforward mission. _Find out who diverts humanitarian aid_, Nacheyev said. You were still on the Enterprise then but you know bloody well how it ended. So come on, you know better than that. Why'd Nacheyev hand this to _us_? In _person_?"

Harry sighed.

"Okay, fine. So there's probably politics involved."

"Very good, Commander. And my favourite kind of politics, too: _ Don't pull on that, you don't know what it's attached to._ What else?"

"Dicey region. Starfleet's remains deeply unpopular with much of the local population."

"B plus, Harry. You're getting there. And I'll give you a hint: So we're going into the Tarikoff Belt - with the one ship in the fleet that has more former Maquis on board than any of the others. Bee, Ayala, Dalby, Chell, the rest ... hell, even _me_ if you squint. So what does that tell you?"

Tom obviously considered this one rhetorical, and so responded himself.

"Instant street cred with the locals. Nacheyev is probably hoping that we can look under rugs where the Federation can't. _Starfleet has no jurisdiction_, my ass."

Harry sat back in his chair, looking distinctly intrigued.

"You think she's sending us because she _wants_ us to intervene, in case we see something, and thinks we can get away with it?"

Tom shrugged.

"Who knows what the hell Nacheyev thinks at any given time, Har. Her _agenda_ has agendas, for Kahless' sake. What I _do_ know is that if we get in trouble in the Belt, and B'Elanna or Mike Ayala make a call, there'll be someone picking up the phone at the other end of the line. And our dear Fleet Admiral is counting on that, I bet."

"Phone?" Harry looked puzzled for a moment, then shook his head. "Never mind."

They sat in silence for a few moments, each digesting what they had heard, and what they hadn't. Tom was chewing his lower lip, wondering whether the tingling in his gut was an extra-sensory warning of some kind, or just a reminder that he'd eaten too many of his mother's cookies the day before.

Harry came to a conclusion first, and – oddly - it seemed to be a happy one. Happy-ish, anyway.

"Well, whatever. It actually sounds exciting. So when do we leave? Nacheyev wasn't very specific."

Tom looked at his best friend, slightly puzzled.

"You seem awfully … _eager_ all of a sudden? What happened? An epiphany about the secret delights of piracy among the stars?"

Harry took a deep breath, and made a – not entirely successful – attempt to school his features into serious officer mode.

"Oh, come on, Tom. _Piracy. _You have to admit that this is … kind of cool, on some level." He hesitated just a little when he saw his friend's frown. "Isn't it?"

"As in, yohoho, and a bottle of blood wine? Captain Proton and the Magic Eye Patch?"

Tom tried to get into Harry's enthusiasm, but found himself failing rather miserably. Maybe it was B'Elanna's comment that she thought he was growing up – time to give up boyish things? Or maybe it was the thought that abducting private and commercial vessels for ransom was, all things considered, rather more sordid than it was romantic.

Either way, he couldn't deny the fact that for his third mission as Captain, the Fleet Admiral seemed to put a fair bit of faith into his judgment in sensitive circumstances. He didn't know whether to be flattered or concerned. Bit of both, probably.

"Well, I do say one thing," Harry's interruption pre-empted any further thoughts on the matter.

"At least we'll be a long way from Orion."


	2. Chapter 2

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies for the late update. Blame RL and a spot of moonlighting in my other fandom …

As those who have read them know, in the ST novels the slipstream drive is Rather Old Hat by now, giving rise to new classes of ships, new personalities and all sorts of other things. But as far as I'm concerned, the books aren't canon, and so I invoke my artistic license to diverge from developments I have never followed, to make it all brand new and never-been-tested-on-humans! Also, I am aware that the USS Challenger was captained by Geordie LaForge in an alternative timeline, after Voyager crashed due to a flaw in the slipstream drive (Season 5's peerless episode "Timeless"). I like him there, though, and it was about time I dragged him into one of my stories. Call it fan fiction convergence.

If any of this causes you emotional trauma - or if I get the fictional details of all that fictional technology wrong - please feel free to vent via PM...

* * *

**Chapter 2**

The Tarikoff belt, as interstellar locales went, was devoid of any significant cosmic phenomena, extraordinary sights or unpleasant astrophysical surprises. Those were limited to the Badlands and their constant plasma storm eruptions, an area with which Voyager and her crew had some experience; the only effect of those, however, provided one steered clear from them otherwise, were frequent disruptions to subspace communications.

A cluster of several hundred suns, strung out across eighteen light years like a band of pearls - or of glass beads, depending on whether one's appreciation of the poetic turn of phrase trumped one's knowledge of the history of colonialism - the Belt was remarkable mostly for the sheer quantity of planets and planetoids it contained.

Spoiled for choice, Federation cartographers were still mapping and cataloguing individual worlds, even as the blood shed in the brutal battle for their ownership had barely dried. So far, the enormous mapping exercise had yielded hundreds of M-class planets and planetoids alone, in addition to over a thousand inhabitable L-class worlds; many of the latter were suitable for terraforming and already being actively examined for valuable resources.

Apart from the enormous potential for colonization and commercial exploitation though, for now the Belt's plethora of largely uncharted, uninhabited worlds provided an ideal haven for smugglers, bandits and business interests that preferred to fly well below the scans of official scrutiny. With the loose alliance of established colonies - barely recovered from the onslaught of Cardassian hegemonic ambition - having made overtures to the Federation concerning potential membership, all those stakeholders were growing … concerned.

"You know, this place is a bit like Earth's Old West," Tom opined during morning briefing sessions.

"People who want things like law and order so they won't have to keep looking over their shoulder, versus the folks who just want a fast buck with minimal interference and have an interest in keeping the chaos. And until some sheriff blows into town and gets a grip, it's pretty much a free-for-all, with guns blazing. As for the people who just want to farm or dig up some dilithium or whatever in peace, their best hope is to just keep their heads down and hope nobody notices them."

"And the Federation is supposed to be the sheriff," Mike Ayala remarked. It was impossible to tell from the tone in his voice whether he was being matter-of-fact, or cynical. "Good luck."

Cynical,Tom decided. Definitely cynical. He didn't contradiction his security chief though.

"Yeah, well. The Federation currently has half a dozen or so diplomatic missions going through the Belt, trying to assess which of those places are in sufficiently decent shape in terms of their governance to be offered membership, and which are being run by criminals or Cardassian sympathizers."

"Anyone actively opposing membership?"

Harry was learning the political ropes, Tom noted with a sense of pleasure, in addition to developing a useful streak of pessimism and paranoia. _Finally. _

Asil, as well, had done her homework with her usual Vulcan thoroughness and precision.

"As the Captain mentioned, there are corporate and commercial interests that would prefer an unregulated, non-taxed environment for the conduct of their operations. There are also those among the colonists who are skeptical of closeness to the Federation for reasons related to their recent history. But with the region being so vast, there is no discernible organization with respect to that opposition, merely an undercurrent of dissatisfaction that could manifest unexpectedly, including through ad hoc banditry or deliberate efforts at destabilization."

"Good thing we're not the ones being asked to try and herd all those cats," Tom replied, heroically refraining from rolling his eyes at this comprehensive, if somewhat … wordy exegesis. He certainly would always be happy to leave diplomacy to those more able to keep a straight face.

"Why didn't they send more ships?" Ayala wanted to know. "Doesn't make sense to have just us come out here and monitor. You need a fleet."

Tom shrugged. "Political sensitivities, I'm told. More of a Starfleet presence, the locals get spooked. Or something."

"Anyone have any smart suggestions as to how we could possibly monitor all … this? By ourselves?"

He made an expansive gesture with his hand towards the observation window, which was dominated by the glittering band of worlds that made up the Belt. With such a target-rich environment for scans and potential bolt holes around every corner, a systemic approach to patrolling the region was as impossible as it was necessary.

"I'm open to any and all bright ideas."

Icheb looked around the table to see if anyone else wanted to take the floor. The young science officer was still a bit shy about speaking out in the midst of his superiors, but getting increasingly more bold.

"I have been talking with Lieutenant Ayala about the kinds of places the Maquis used as a staging ground for their raids. It would seem to be logical that at least some of the pirates are former Maquis, or have connections to them …"

He cast a semi-apologetic look at Ayala and B'Elanna, before gathering his confidence and continuing.

"Based on that assumption, I would start to look for planets whose geological make-up at least resembles that of those where the cells were active. The primary thing those all had in common were extensive cave systems, where ships and shuttles could be shielded from scanners and long range sensors."

Tom nodded; that description certainly accorded with his own – however limited – experience with the Maquis in the region. He vaguely remembered suggesting to Janeway that the Belt was where she might want to go looking for Chakotay and the Valjean.

Icheb activated the holoprojector in the centre of the briefing table, pulling up a three-dimensional image of the Tarikoff Belt. Even in this form, the Belt resembled nothing more than the glittering _wampum _that Earth's native Americans had seen in the arm of the Milky Way as it spanned the night sky.

The young ensign punched a few commands into a PADD, and several of the worlds before them started to blink brightly.

"Here," he said, his voice increasingly sure. "These are the ones with cave formations that are sufficiently large, with sufficient external access, for small ships to be flown inside."

He tapped his PADD again.

"If we remove the ones that are known to be inhabited, this is what is left – thirty-five planetoids."

"That's a lot less to keep an eye on than a couple of thousand," Harry commented with a grin of approval in the young ensign's direction. "Well done, Icheb!"

"I wouldn't discount the places with colonies on them though," B'Elanna frowned, before glancing at her mate.

"Yeah," Tom picked up her thread, nodding. "Best place to hide sometimes is under the eyes of supposed authority, especially if that authority has no real clout and no money. Or else offers active protection, in exchange for a cut of the profits."

Icheb obediently reversed his earlier actions, resulting in forty-nine worlds now blinking at Voyager's officers from the centre of the briefing room table.

"Okay, I think our haystack might just have become manageable," Tom said. "Engage long-range sensors, train them on these places, look for traffic patterns, as well as strays."

"Strays?" Asil raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, anything that moves against the current, outside the shipping lanes you'll probably see evolving pretty quickly. _Anything._"

"How long do we need to look before we see patterns, do you think?" Harry asked.

Tom shrugged.

"As long as it takes. The patterns are there. They're always there, even when they're not."

…..

Ten days on, and patterns were, in fact, starting to emerge. Voyager had patrolled the length of the belt twice, scanned and triangulated the routes of some 15,400 vessels, and entered into polite conversation with half a dozen colony leaders who wanted to reassure the "_very welcome _Federation vessel" that they were fully supportive of its presence, and would be happy to receive a visit.

As to the patterns, the intriguing bit that Asil, Icheb and Ayala had managed to discern was that while registered trade vessels were more likely to be found near the worlds with apparently responsible governance, so were the rogue ships that appeared to be travelling without a clear route or discernible purpose.

Which meant one thing: Thanks to the non-interference order they had been given by Nacheyev and in the absence of an actual incident that would permit intervention, they were stuck watching. No surreptitious landings in the guise of a spot of exploration; no pursuit of vessels whose presence could not be readily explained.

And no _fucking_ _way_ of proving that there was collusion between any of the local authorities and the pirates.

Tom was getting impatient, and hating himself for it. This was precisely the sort of thing Starfleet captains were supposed to excel at: observing, collecting data, analyzing them and reporting back. It was also supposed to be a calming and refreshing – literally – change from his first couple of outings as Captain, which had pretty much turned into clusterfucks of galactic proportions. And yes, maybe this enforced relative inactivity was intended to prove to Starfleet that he _wouldn't_ always charge into a volatile situation, phasers blazing, to force answers?

Hell. Maybe B'Elanna was right, and he really was an adrenaline junkie. He practically cried with relief when the hail came from the USS Challenger, with a request that the comm be routed to the Ready Room via a secure line.

Once the necessary steps had been taken and Tom had alerted Harry to participate in the call, the face of Captain Geordie LaForge, legendary Chief Engineer of the Enterprise, hove into view.

"Captain Paris," he said with a smile.

Disconcertingly, the smile did not touch LaForge's eyes, but Tom knew from past meetings that the reconstructive work done on the Captain's optical nerves, however advanced in its approach, had had its limits. He responded with an easy smile to the man in whose impossible footsteps B'Elanna had been made to step during their year as senior officers on the Enterprise.

"Glad you called," he said. "I can use a diversion. _Any_ diversion, truth be told. Tell me something exciting. Something that doesn't involve trade routes, migration patterns and lost tourists."

LaForge chuckled.

"My … _illustrious passenger_ made me a bet that you'd be going out of your head by now, mapping, cataloguing and collecting data. Guess she knows you rather well, Captain."

He shifted aside a little, and the familiar auburn head of Kathryn Janeway hove into view, a small smile on her face.

"Tom, Harry. Good to see you again. It's been what, a month?"

"Guess it's a small world after all," Tom smiled back. "I assume you're here as part of that grand diplomatic initiative to bring the Tarikoff worlds into the Federation?"

Janeway nodded.

"Yes, they sent four of us, given the number of worlds involved and the lack of any real central decision-making authority. It means we need to fan out. The other misions have travelled by shuttle from Deep Space Nine; I was fortunate enough to hitch a ride on the Challenger all the way into the Belt, but my team and I will be transferring to a shuttle shortly myself."

"Shuttle diplomacy?" There were days when Tom couldn't help himself.

Kathryn fixed him with one of her patented stares.

"The distances between worlds here are so short, it makes no economic sense to keep whole starships occupied. Besides, we don't want to alarm local governments. Some of them seem convinced that Starfleet is about to invade."

"Yes, but _shuttles_? In this neighbourhood? Aren't you just asking for it? I mean, you know why _we're_ here, right?"

LaForge and Janeway exchanged glances. Clearly, this had been the subject of extensive discussions between them as well. He took on the response on her behalf.

"The records we've got – and you'll have seen the same, Captain – is that kidnappings are focused on commercial vessels, where the pirates can take either the cargo or the ransom someone pays for it."

_Playing the odds? How typical of the Federation Council. _Tom just shook his head in silent protest. Harry voiced his concerns for him.

"But there have also been the occasional kidnapping of high-profile passengers. It doesn't seem to get more high-profile than Federation diplomats, does it?"

"The shuttles have extra security features and personnel," Kathryn said firmly. "And as for extra discouragement - I guess that's where you come in, with Voyager."

Tom exchanged glances with his First Officer. Three, soon to be four diplomatic shuttles –it made actual sense for Nacheyev to have sent Voyager into the Belt as a deterrent, however limited, to any faction that might be tempted to abduct one of the Federation's envoys. What made less sense is that her command team hadn't been told of this part of their assignment.

"If we're supposed to act as a warning beacon, why didn't anyone tell us? Or tell us where the missions are, so we can keep an eye on them? This doesn't make sense on any level."

The thought of Janeway roaming the Tarikoff Belt without immediate protection bothered Tom deeply; so much for those breathless threat assessments with regard to the Orion Syndicate. Maybe the logic was different location, different enemy? Whichever way he looked at it, Tom didn't like it.

Kathryn sighed.

"Things have gotten a bit … paranoid at Starfleet, and in the Council. Too many leaks, too many fingers in too many pies, and Nacheyev's hands are tied. She does what she can, and you're apparently it. I probably shouldn't have told you what I did, but sometimes …"

Her voice petered off as a look of silent understanding passed between Kathryn and her former helmsman. They always had read each other's silences well, and Tom had no difficulty understanding this one: a warning, and a request for vigilance that should have come from other quarters.

He nodded grimly; _message received and understood._

"You know, when I was getting ready for this assignment I did some reading on the history of piracy," he said. "In the twenty-first century they had issues off the coast of North Africa, and some states sent a warship or two to disrupt the pirates, so they could at least be seen to be doing something. That worked really well, as long as they were acting as a direct escort. Otherwise … hell, the ocean's a big place. Space is bigger. Hell of a deterrent, one lousy ship. Talk about a drop in the bucket. Especially if the bucket doesn't know what it's there for."

And then something else floated to the top of his memory banks – an off-hand comment of his father's: _we wouldn't be able to consider Bajor or any of the colonies in the Tarikoff belt for Federation membership … something I have been asked to look at by Starfleet_.

"Is my father part of this … this exercise in low-rent risk management?" he asked with a frown.

"Yes he is," Kathryn responded, raising her eyebrows. "I'm surprised he didn't mention it, given where you were going."

Tom shrugged.

"I didn't know what my assignment would be when I saw him; he probably didn't either. Starfleet has become rather good at stove-piping these days. But he did mention that he'd been asked to be involved in the Tarikoff initiative, just not in what way."

"Well, keep an eye out for him," Kathryn said with a smile. "I'll tell him I ran into you. We're in regular contact."

She exchanged glances with LaForge again.

"You tell him the other thing, Captain."

_What other thing?_

LaForge gave one of his odd smiles again.

"There's something else you should know about the Challenger, Captain Paris. Something we have onboard that the Admiral thought you would find of particular interest."

He paused for obvious effect, which Kathryn, apparently unable to hold back her excitement, used to steal his thunder after all.

"Three words, Tom._ Quantum slipstream drive_."

Tom's head flew up, even as Harry whistled. For the moment, all talk about piracy, diplomatic shuttles and risk was forgotten.

"But the Challenger isn't equipped to handle that kind of drive. Is it?" Harry, brow furrowed, voiced immediate skepticism.

"The drive is not installed in the Challenger," LaForge replied. "It's in one of our shuttles. Once we've dropped off the Admiral we're heading out of the Belt, to the Carinian Nebula to test it. Remote control – no man-operated flights authorized as yet."

Voyager's bridge officers nodded in immediate understanding. The unique nature of that somewhat misnamed nebula – an expanse of several parsecs that boasted the lowest concentration of stellar matter in the Quadrant – made it an ideal testing ground for new inter-stellar drive technology: little opportunity to bump into inconvenient planetoids, meteoroids, or even much in the way of particulates.

Plus, there would be no audience for practice runs involving highly classified projects.

"Too bad I'll miss the show," Kathryn said, ignoring the wry eyebrow Tom cocked at her.

"But this is actually one of the reasons I was allowed to come here on the Challenger – Captain LaForge and his engineers have been picking my brain for the last few days on our experiences with the Dauntless, as well as that engine you, Harry and B'Elanna constructed for Voyager and the Flyer."

Harry swallowed a little at a memory that was, for him, not an entirely happy one; the mysterious message supposedly sent by his future alter ego, who together with Chakotay had claimed to have been the sole survivor of the catastrophic failure of that same experiment in a different timeline, continued to haunt him on occasion. He had never erased it, and never shared it with Libby (just as he had never told her that he wasn't _exactly _the same Harry she had kissed goodbye when he had set out with the Voyager crew on its ill-fated journey). Some things were just too … complicated.

Tom clapped a hand on his best friend's shoulder and, looking back at the screen, schooled his features into something like polite interest, rather than the giddy desire he actually felt.

"If it would be helpful to your team, Commander Kim, my Chief Engineer and I _could_ maybe join you for a couple of hours to have a look at your set-up, and provide you with some of our own comments."

Janeway's eyes sparkled and she let out a deep chuckle - Tom's diffidence fooled no one, least of all his former Captain - while LaForge had the good grace to merely smile.

"I thought you'd never offer, Captain."

…..

Two hours later, Tom, B'Elanna and Harry arrived on the Challenger's transporter platform to be greeted by her Captain. LaForge was accompanied by his Chief of Security, a K'tarian, and two security personnel armed with phaser compression rifles that they looked like they knew how to use. All three officers were subjected to retinal scans, finger prints and DNA samples with a tricorder, before the security chief cleared them to proceed to the shuttle bay, in the company of the security officers.

"Not taking any chances, are you?" B'Elanna asked LaForge as they headed into the corridor. "Worried about pirates?"

LaForge shook his head in the affirmative.

"This is cutting edge technology we've got onboard here," he said. "Military and commercial potential are virtually unlimited. I'm sure there are people who would love to get their hands on this prototype – another reason why we're headed for the Carinian Nebula. You can sense … _things_ coming from very far away."

"Yes, but aren't you taking a risk stopping here in the Belt to drop off the Admiral and her shuttle?" Harry wanted to know. "Pirates would be more than interested in your cargo, if they found out what you have onboard."

With a look towards Tom, he added, "And, as the Admiral noted earlier, Starfleet is a sieve these days when it comes to secrets. I bet there are people out here who know exactly what you've got onboard."

"No pirate ship has ever attacked a Starfleet vessel in this region, Commander," the K'tarian – said flatly. "They know that if they did, they would bring the wrath of the Federation down on themselves. Still, of course, we can't be too sure."

Tom, who had followed the entire exchange in silence, just sighed.

"I hope you're right."

"The Admiral sends her regrets, by the way," LaForge said, as they arrived in the shuttle bay.

"She received word of an urgent incoming transmission from Starfleet, just as we were about to come down. She's hoping you'll come up to my ready room after we're done here for a quick visit, so you can say hello in person."

Tom exchanged a quick glance with B'Elanna. Janeway was always the first to put duty ahead of pleasure, but even so, the ability to exchange family and other news face-to-face was still something that none of those who had served on Voyager in the Delta Quadrant took for granted, and seized at every opportunity. The message had to be important to keep their former Captain away.

"Do try and contain your disappointment, Tom," B'Elanna whispered in her husband's ears. Despite his brief moment of concern, Tom's eyes were already fixing on the prototype before him as if he was looking at the Crown Jewels of Pah'qh.

"It's a Flyer," Harry exclaimed, entirely unnecessarily.

An officer LaForge had introduced as Lieutenant Commander Popescu from the Daystrom Institute, in charge of overseeing the new drive, took it upon himself to respond. A skinny young man with deep frown lines, whose fingernails betrayed a life-time habit of absent-minded chewing, he seemed unused to speaking and sounded just a little exasperated, as if he had been asked to explain quantum theory to a caveman.

"Of _course_ it's a Flyer. That's the model that was used for the first slipstream drive. So we had data. The people who made the first attempt used an Intrepid-class ship too, but that got bounced out of the slipstream too soon, so it wasn't …"

His voice tapered off as he took another look at the officers standing beside him, and his mouth formed a little _oh._

"But I guess you know that," he added a little sheepishly. "Sorry."

"Yeah, we do," Tom replied. "Believe me, we do. But anyway …"

.

Sometimes, a little gloating just couldn't be helped.

"The Delta Flyer would have been an _excellent_ choice of model even without the data," he said disingenuously. B'Elanna rolled her eyes at him.

"You can be such a suck, Tom," she said fondly. "But I can't say I disagree. Can I have a look under the hood, Commander? See what … improvements you've been made?"

Popescu's young features lit up; he obviously enjoyed showing off his engine, especially to someone who might actually appreciate what he had built. He nodded enthusiastically, and everyone climbed onboard the resting shuttle while the security officers, who stayed behind, gripped their weapons more tightly.

Harry immediately headed for the Ops console, while Popescu asked the computer to open the trap door in the front cockpit that led to the engine compartment. Tom's eyes lingered on his wife's disappearing form with amusement for a moment before he turned to LaForge.

"So how are you planning on running your tests, Captain? I take it human sacrifice … err … manned flight is still out of the question?"

LaForge, himself a former helmsman, grinned at the test pilot vernacular.

"Afraid so. Strict orders from the admiralty. People have been studying your and Admiral Janeway's Warp 10 experiences, and even though the technology you used for that was quite different from the slipstream engine, no one wants to take any chances with this one. Our first live passenger will be a rhesus monkey, just like in the good old days of space flight. The rest is all remote control."

"A monkey? Call him Albert?"

"Of course." LaForge grinned. "Why mess with tradition? Although his one's a girl. We figure that's the charm to making sure this Albert does better than some of her predecessors."

B'Elanna's voice emerged from under the floor, accompanied by a slight echo.

"Interesting control mechanism for remote operation," she said. "Kind of flimsy, though. Won't take much to switch to helm control. Did you build in a failsafe to make sure it doesn't slip inadvertently when things start to rattle? You'd have a hell of a time getting your shuttle back. Took us days to hook up again with the Flyer when Voyager got kicked out of the slipstream, and Harry and Chakotay kept going."

LaForge shrugged.

"We did build in a failsafe. But the easy changeover mechanism is deliberate. We're hoping that once we've done a few test flights and Laika has come back intact, we'll get the green light to test with a humanoid pilot. We wanted to make switching over easy, so we can do it out here, without having to go back to dock. We've got a queue of volunteers practically banging on the hull."

He stole a glance at his guest, while B'Elanna continued her conversation with Popescu, who, judging by the sound of his voice, had turned positively animated.

"Seems like everybody wants to be the next Tom Paris."

Tom shook his head, and snorted his derision even as he stepped over to the helm, with the hesitant step of someone who finally permitted himself a pleasure too-long denied.

"Believe me, being the _first_ Tom Paris, doing Warp Ten, was no great shakes."

He considered his own response briefly, as if the words had been spoken by someone else, and he'd been asked to edit them.

"No, take that back. It was a lot of_ shakes_, and then a whole lot of …"

His voice trailed off, almost as if he had been carrying out a polite conversation on one level of his being, while the remainder was becoming utterly absorbed by something on a different plane altogether. His mouth might still be engaged with LaForge, but his heart and soul were right here, in the fingers now grazing the helm console.

"A whole lot of barfing, embarrassment and conduct unbecoming," his unsympathetic spouse added helpfully as she levered herself back out of the cavity. She mouthed a _thank you _to Popescu, who had evidently found something in the engine room that held his interest to a far greater extent than his human guests.

"Yeah, all that and more." Tom looked up at Geordie, momentarily detaching himself mentally from the helm. "I hope your lot fares a little better that I did, LaForge. That said, we didn't have those issues with the slipstream drive, when we used that. Different technology. Different kind of troubles."

He frowned, and allowed himself to give in to his distraction again, his world narrowing to the console under his hands.

"What exactly does this do? Oh, nevermind – I see. Of course …"

Tom's fingers mimicked a dance across the helm's controls, and a small, private smile crossed his face as he ran the ship through a sequence of imaginary maneuvers. Geordie, aware that a moment of reverent silence was called for, observed him quietly for a while before speaking again.

"I'd have thought you would try and talk me into a spot on the shuttle when she flies, Tom. What I was given to believe by your former Captain, anyway. She said, and I quote, 'You may need to restrain Mr. Paris from running off with your ship,' end quote."

Tom's hand on the helm stilled, and he held his breath for a second. His lower lip disappeared between his teeth and his eyes flew up, bright blue and intense.

"Why? You … offering?"

His tone was carefully neutral, but deceived neither his wife nor his best friend who had overheard the exchange.

"_Tom _…"

Harry's voice was low, but the warning it carried was unmistakable. Good, reliable, dependable swallowed hard, ground his jaw and exchanged a quick glance with B'Elanna, who shook her head ever so slightly. He sighed deeply. So much … responsibility in one place, it could go to a man's head.

Or dampen his soul.

"Never mind. Don't answer that, Geordie. Have to be a grownup, can't abandon the day job for the sake of a little joy ride, even in my dreams. Right? Right."

Tom knew his iron-willed attempt at projecting professionalism and commitment had convinced no one, of course; he shook himself slightly, as if trying to awaken from a pleasant, but inappropriate dream. B'Elanna put a sympathetic hand on his arm as he took a deep breath.

"Thanks for letting us having a look-see, Captain. Better get out of here while I can, and go have a chat with the Admiral. Before I _do_ get tempted to make off with Popescu's baby."

He looked over to B'Elanna and Harry.

"You guys will probably want to stay and talk specs with Popescu. I doubt he'll get anything of use from a former pilot."

He turned on his heel and left the shuttle bay without looking back, trailed by LaForge. The Challenger's security guards resumed their vigil as if nothing had changed.

…..

The Challenger's ready room was similar to that of any other Galaxy-class explorer Tom had spent time on except for one important difference: it had Kathryn Janeway in it.

A deeply unhappy, deeply concerned Kathryn Janeway.

"Tom," she said, her voice containing none of the pleasure at seeing him that it had a few short hours ago.

"Sorry I couldn't meet you."

She closed the comm, the transmission obviously having concluded.

"What's up, Admiral?" Geordie asked. "Trouble?"

"You could say that," Kathryn said tersely. She took a deep breath before elaborating, her eyes lingering on Tom as she spoke.

"As you now know, there are four separate missions currently underway to try and convince the Belt colonies to join the Federation. We've received word that one of them has been compromised."

"Compromised? You mean, as in _taken_? Does Voyager know?"

Tom frowned his concern. _Why hadn't Voyager already commed him?_

"Yes, seized, apparently by pirates, although no request for ransom has been received as yet. And no, Voyager will not be aware as yet. The missions were provided with a special subspace link for distress messages, as a protective measure. The attackers wouldn't be aware that a distress signal had been sent."

"Special channel? That makes absolutely no sense," Tom intervened angrily. "How fucking _special _can it be if the ship sent to the Belt to keep an eye on things doesn't get it? We're closest to the scene, and our mandate, according to Nacheyev, includes intervention in case of necessity. Sending a distress signal to Headquarters is like ... like a drowning man leaving a call for help in a fucking time capsule. Hasn't anyone told the morons in San Francisco that when it comes to kidnappings, it's the first twenty-four hours that's critical?"

Kathryn sighed.

"I don't disagree, but the Council …"

She waved off what would likely be a frank summary of just _what_ Tom Paris thought of the Council and its decision-making processes.

"The Council, for better or worse, decided to retain the right to consider what action would be taken in a case like this, given the political sensitivities in the region. But …

Her eyes fixed on Tom's, with an intensity that made his throat go dry.

"I had a second, private message from Admiral Nacheyev directly. She asked me personallyto … notify you, Tom – pending the Council's decision on what action is to be taken."

She studied her former pilot intently, her expression now unreadable, before crossing the floor to lay a hand on his arm. He knew before she spoke what she would say.

"Tom. The vessel that was attacked was your father's."


	3. Chapter 3

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter draws heavily on my own post-Endgame 'verse and head canon, in particular my story "Choices." Part of that story addresses "the Maquis question," namely the criminal charges they would still face after their return from the Delta Quadrant. It gives Owen Paris a major role in ensuring the dismissal of those charges. (It all makes sense when you read it, honest, but knowing this, you don't have to. Of course I'd love it if you did...!)

Thanks to all you folks out there for your patience, and for the occasional nudges. I think I can promise relatively reliably that the next update will come a bit faster.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

The mood in Voyager's briefing room changed from buoyant to somber with a speed resembling the application of a litmus test. Having assembled in the expectation of an exciting report about the new drive, the officers who had been left behind instead faced a grim-faced Captain whose knuckles were turning white as he rested two balled fists on the table. If anything, Tom's refusal to sit down told its own story to those who knew him well – it was a wonder he hadn't started pacing the room.

"As a result of these events, can we expect orders that would supersede the fact that Starfleet has no jurisdiction to intervene?" Asil asked, putting her finger, as usual, on the crux of the issue.

Tom shook his head.

"I doubt we'll get anything from Starfleet. And we have received no direct distress call ourselves, so we can't use rescue overrides."

Icheb looked around the room, from one officer to the other, incredulity written across his young features.

"So there is nothing that we can do for Admiral Paris?"

The Doctor obviously shared Icheb's indignation.

"We are talking about your _father,_ Mr. Paris. Surely there is _something_ Voyager and Admiral Janeway can do."

The EMH rarely anymore lapsed into the address he had used when Tom had served as his medic; the fact that he did so now was either evidence of genuine distress, or an unsubtle effort to reinforce his point about the Captain's family obligations. Either way, Tom ignored him.

He moved over to the observation window now, allowing Icheb's and the EMH's words to hang in the room like a toxic cloud he could not touch. He didn't stare out of the window as much as _at_ the window, seeing the ghost of his reflection – his father's blue eyes staring back at him from his own face, shot through by the diamond dust that was the Tarikoff Belt.

He didn't turn around, but he straightened a little as he drew a deep breath. It clung to the window for a moment, rendering the image of his face in the transparent aluminum even more diffuse for the briefest of moments.

"No. I didn't say that there was _nothing_ that we can do. We're _restricted_ in what we can do; Admiral Janeway even more so than us, given her mission here. We just need more work to find the _something _that we can do, within those restrictions_._"

He turned to face his officers, but his eyes were fixed on B'Elanna as he spoke.

"Admiral Nacheyev sent us here because of Voyager's'_ extensive experience in tracking and tracing'_. Her words, not mine. So let's do some tracking and tracing."

"And if we find something?" Harry's clear tenor was not so much challenging him, as he seemed genuinely curious. "Then what?"

Tom let out a long breath even as he noticed B'Elanna's eyebrows twitch at the question, clearly echoing her own thoughts. He had little illusion what his wife would suggest they do, or what he himself would have advocated doing not so very long ago – _find and hunt the bastards, mount an extraction. _

What he was not so clear about was what Tom Paris, newly responsible Starfleet Captain, should, could or might do – but there was no point in admitting that quite yet, to himself or his staff.

"We cross that bridge when we come to it. Our official mission here is to collect information and analyze it. So let's do some tracking and tracing. No one can fault us for doing our job, and we won't cause a diplomatic ruckus."

His jaw worked a little, and his fingers flexed.

"Icheb, we have a rough idea from Janeway where my father's … Admiral Paris' shuttle was headed. Start in that sector, look for Federation warp signature traces and any intersects. Extrapolate your findings with traffic in and out of those planetoids you'd pegged for potential boltholes. Let me know what you find, as soon as you find it. Dismissed."

And with that, Tom turned on his heels and left the room. Harry followed hard on his heels.

"That answer was a cop-out if I ever saw one," Harry remarked conversationally as he watched Tom settle into his desk chair.

"I mean, the Doc is right. This _is_ your father we're talking about here. Don't tell me you're just going to sit there, collect information and wait for someone to comm Starfleet with a ransom demand, or for Starfleet to tell you to stay out of it."

Under any other circumstance, Tom might have grinned at his best friend, but he was fresh out of humour. Instead, he glared at him.

"I meant exactly what I said, Har. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, we need more information. Maybe a couple of years ago I'd have barreled halfway across the Belt screaming for someone's blood. I've grown up, okay? Maybe Chakotay or Riker have rubbed off on my. Right now, I want to gather some more information first. If that's okay with you."

Harry carefully suppressed a _who are you and what have you done with Tom?_ look and nodded.

"Good. And when you've collected the information, then what? Don't tell me there's no _then_."

Tom grabbed a PADD off his desk, turned it around in his hands a few times, and slapped it down again with an audible _thunk._

"Fine. I'm ... let's just say, I'm convinced that Nacheyev intended us to engage if something like this happened. Regardless of what the Council may have requested. Don't tell me why, I just have a feeling. It's why she sent us here, and why she asked the Cap … why she asked Admiral Janeway specifically to let me know what happened. She just can't give us any direct orders for some reason. Maybe there are reasons why Starfleet won't – or can't - overtly defy the Council at this time. I have no idea what it is, but I hope to find out. Either way, it's a fucking tightrope we're walking here and I have no idea what will blow us off or when."

"So we wait."

"Yeah. We wait. But not just wait. We collect as much _fucking _information and carry out as much _fucking _analysis as we can. Because that's what we're missing here, Har. _Fucking facts. _And then, when we have it, maybe we can act."

Harry shook his head, slowly.

"I'm amazed how you can be so … so together. I remember how you got when the Doc abducted B'Elanna, and I heard later that you were a holy terror when she and I went missing."

Tom let out a short, mirthless cackle. Perhaps this wasn't the sort of thing Captains should be admitting to their First Officers – Janeway would never have done it (would she? had she?) – but this was his best friend and … the hell with it.

"Who says I've got it together? You familiar with the image of the swan – gliding serenely at the top, and paddling like fuck underneath? My feet are getting sore just from keeping me from drowning, Harry."

Tom rose from his desk and paced over to the observation window in his long, loping stride, banging his fist on the transparent surface before turning back.

"My Dad was taken hostage by the Cardassians when I was a kid, way before the peace treaty. He's been there once before. And what happened to him there was worse than anything you can imagine – worse than the crap I went through in Auckland. What he's going through now … I can't even imagine. No, scrap that. I _can_ imagine. Shit."

He rubbed his hands across his face, digging his knuckles into his eye sockets for a moment.

Harry held his silence for a moment before saying softly, "But he lived through it."

"Yeah, he lived through it," Tom grated. "Not well, mind you - it … it changed him … I don't know if he can go through this again."

"This isn't the Cardassians, Tom. These are people who make a living out of abductions. Killing hostages is bad for business."

"Unless they're trying to make the point that they will do that unless they're paid."

The tone of Tom's voice betrayed his growing resentment at the turn in this conversation, from Harry questioning him for not caring enough to do anything, to Harry telling him not to despair. Just who was trying to convince whom of what, though – those lines were becoming distinctly blurred.

Harry sounded a bit guilty now, having essentially forced his friend to expose his fears like a raw nerve.

"Proof of life. An essential ingredient in kidnapping, isn't it? They need to keep him alive, and verifiably so, if they want to get whatever it is they'll be asking for. The point is, he survived before, Tom. And he'll do so again. If anyone is stubborn enough to get through this, it's a Paris. And your Dad knows the rules of the game like no one else alive."

Tom almost laughed at this. Oh yes - even if Thomas Eugene didn't always cleave to them as if they were Holy Writ, the Paris clan knew the rules like no one else in Starfleet. Harry had a point.

His father would remember the rules: _Rule One, Starfleet Protocol for Officers in Captivity: Survive. There's always hope._

Tom could almost feel his mind flood with the conviction his best friend had been trying to transmit. He nodded, feeling calmer than he had in hours.

"Yeah. I guess you're right. That also means, though, that _I'm _right, wanting to spend some time collecting information before jumping to conclusions and into whatever action we can."

This time, Harry simply nodded in concession before adding, "Have you … talked to your mother yet? Or your sisters?"

Tom snorted contemptuously.

"Janeway reminded me that '_Starfleet Headquarters will_ _look after contacting next of kin_.' She was authorized to tell me, but I'm not supposed to '_interfere with Headquarters messaging on the home front'._ Standard protocol, in the case of hostage takings and kidnappings. She practically read it to me."

He shook his head.

"Fuck. There's a protocol for everything, isn't there."

Harry remained silent, knowing his friend wasn't finished yet.

"I'm not sure how my Mom will take it when they come for her this time. It's been … too often. First Dad. Then the news about Caldik Prime, the shit I put her through after that. Voyager's disappearance, the hearings … Honestly, she's got the strength of ten, that woman does, but eventually …"

He let the thought trail off. Yes, Julia Paris had more than enough experience in receiving bad news from Starfleet. Maybe this was the time it needed to come from someone else … and the hell with Starfleet protocol.

Harry nodded slowly, as if in approval of the thought processes that had played themselves out so very transparently across Tom's open features. He added another thought.

"This is different from when he was taken by the Cardassians. You're here, on site, to help, to do what you can. That should make her feel better – and if you're right, it's not something Starfleet would tell her. And if someone wants to make a profit from this, which is what piracy is all about, they have no incentive to kill him. Your Mom would want to know that. And to hear that. From _you_. "

And then Harry did something he rarely did. He added, "Screw protocol."

Tom smiled, the first genuine smile since Janeway had broken the news.

"Yeah. Screw protocol."

The two friends remained silent for a while, until Tom added matter-of-factly, "Janeway promised she'll let me know if and when Starfleet hears anything about demands."

It was Harry's turn to ball his hands into fists on Tom's desk, then open them again slowly.

"And I suppose then we start to negotiate."

The two friends held each other's eyes, the truth unspoken between them.

_Starfleet prohibits the paying of ransom demands. Exhibit One: Paris, O.; Captain of the U.S.S. Icarus, taken in Cardassian territory in the spring of 2355._

"Yeah. And then we start to negotiate."

…..

"We found it, Captain. The location of the kidnapping."

The pride in Icheb's voice was barely noticeable over the urgency with which his voice came over the comm. Urgency … and something else. Tom was out of his chair and on the bridge within seconds.

The door to the bridge had barely closed behind Tom when Ayala added, "But there is a problem, sir. You see, the shuttle …"

His tone carried the clearest of warnings: _Brace yourself. _

A few long steps, and Tom was beside the console where Ayala, Icheb and Asil stood huddled. Harry was in his chair, having held the bridge for the duration of the investigations, but now turned sideways to listen in.

"It's gone."

There was no subtle way to put it. The traces of the warp signature Icheb had identified ended within a light-year or so of the nearest inhabited planetoid – no doubt its destination in this diplomatic dance – and were replaced by scatter traces of plasma and other evidence of an explosion.

"Self-destruct?"

Tom's voice was unusually clipped.

"Can't tell, sir, but stands to reason. If these shuttles are equipped with secret comms facilities, they may also have an auto-destruct protocol."

"Let's hope some of those fucking pirates were onboard when that happened," Ensign Schmidt chimed in from the auxiliary ops console. "Would serve the bastards right."

"Yeah, and let's hope that the crew wasn't," Tom replied softly, causing an unaccustomed blush to creep up the security officer's thick, corded neck.

"Sorry, sir, I …"

"No worries, Arno. I hope you're right. They probably installed a version of General Order #6."

He did not need to articulate, to this audience, the origin of General Order #6 itself: Auto-destruct within 24 hours of termination of life signs from the crew.

"Icheb - any other traces or signatures?"

Icheb pointed at a faint line.

"This, sir. It's barely present; they must have a masking signal. We only found it because we were looking for a clear intersect; maybe they had to disengage it in order to execute the attack. Asil is already trying to see if she can decode whatever they used to overlay their warp signature with and whether it's something we can work with; that could change the picture of our existing observations. But in the meantime …"

"In the meantime it looks like we have a place to go, doesn't it. This it?"

Tom stabbed his finger at a bright, small star at the end point of the faint trajectory. The signal was too diffuse to determine whether the vessel had reached it yet, but if the small remnants of its signal could be read as a trajectory, its destination was clear.

"Yes, sir."

Tom pounded the console with his flat hand. There was no time to be wasted; the distance to the system was at least eighteen hours, at maximum warp. He turned to the helm.

"Pablo, set a course for Bethesda Prime, Warp Eight. And please comm B'Elanna; I want her in my ready room. Asil, you have the bridge. Open a channel to Admiral Janeway and provide her with the data; tell her we're on our way in case we need back-up. I'm not asking for it now, but have them stand ready. Mike, Harry, you're with me."

He turned on his heel and stalked back into this sanctum.

_Something to do._

Ayala was the first to settle into one of the upholstered seats, the puzzlement as to why the Captain insisted in meeting here rather than the briefing room clearly written across his dark features. Harry flopped into the seat beside him, leaving the one beside Tom for the Chief Engineer, once she had made her way up from Deck 10.

"Mike? Bethesda Prime? What do you know? It's in the outer reaches of the former DMZ, but we never went there while I was on the Valjean."

The former Maquis scratched his head and cast his eyes far away.

"Just a farming outpost back in the day, really – don't think the Cardassians ever bothered with it, because there's no mineral deposits or other resources. Agricultural, settled by some back-to-the-soil types that like to keep to themselves. They weren't active supporters of the cause," – no need to explain which _cause_ he meant – "but they didn't stop us from using the mountain cave systems as a hideout. Don't-ask-don't-tell attitude."

Harry had been punching query after query into the PADD he had brought into the ready room with him, and now looked up from the small screen with a keen eye.

"The place apparently became a bit more important after we ended up in the Delta Quadrant, Mike. Precisely because the Cardassians had no apparent interest in it, a number of refugees and displaced colonists went there. People who had lost everything when they fled, and were reduced to subsistence farming to survive. The Cardassians swept through at least once to look for Maquis among the refugees, with predictable results: Dead civilians, more overt support for the Maquis. Now, it's become a haven for settlers coming back into the DMZ and some of the surviving Maquis."

He set the PADD down. "All that serves to explain why your father was in the neighbourhood. Probably headed there for one of his stops. And as for the place itself, poverty and lack of resources and opportunity would make piracy into a useful side line for some."

The whoosh of the door announced B'Elanna's arrival.

"Any news?" she asked immediately, sighing a little when Tom shook his head.

B'Elanna and Owen Paris had developed a close relationship over the last couple of years. While she found his stiff-upper-lip Starfleetness a bit hard to take at times, his unflinching support for Tom, herself and the entire Voyager crew both during and after their journey had told her all she needed to know about the man behind the uniform. (Plus, she enjoyed the way he turned to utter mush in the presence of his granddaughter.) Her staff in Engineering, if asked, would have been happy to testify to the tension she had been feeling since her return from the USS Challenger.

"Janeway is keeping us posted, I presume, since we're not considered fit to communicate with Starfleet directly?"

Tom shook his head again, this time in the affirmative.

"Why I called you in here, and why I'm keeping this small. We all know we can't interfere in official Belt matters. But – we can certainly make inquiries of the local population. That's where you come in."

All three officers leaned forward in their seats.

"What Mike and Harry just told me was exactly what I was hoping for. Our target is a place that tends to mind its own business, but full of ex-Maquis and displaced settlers from the DMZ. Harry, I'd like to send you down there with an away team, and take Mike and B'Elanna. Maybe their presence and my father's name can generate enough goodwill to get us some concrete information."

B'Elanna frowned.

"And you're not going why?"

Tom gave a little chuckle, but there was no humour in it.

"One, my status with the Maquis is still a bit … questionable, and I sure as hell don't want to run into any of my Auckland buddies. That could seriously backfire."

He exchanged a quick look with Mike Ayala, who nodded slowly, _Yes._ No amount of explanation could ever dispel a well-formed prejudice, and this was not the time to try and tilt at that particular windmill. If there was to be one Paris who formed the centre of people's attention, it better be Owen.

"Two, to tell you the truth, I am … I'm afraid I might be compromised. Not able to keep my cool if they don't give me what I need, and give it to me fast. You, Harry, can do that. Plus, you provide the link to … regular Starfleet that I think we need to have given the current political scene. It wouldn't hurt to remind these people that Maquis and Starfleet work together these days. That message won't be so clear if I went."

The men rose to leave, but B'Elanna stayed behind. As soon as the door had closed, she walked over to her husband and put her hands on his shoulders, her fingers lightly massaging the juncture with his neck where he tended to carry his tension.

"You okay?"

He pulled her into a tight embrace, staying silent for a moment while burying his face in her hair. They stayed that way while he spoke.

"Yes. No. No, not really."

He sighed heavily, as he remembered his earlier painful conversation with Julia Paris.

"Mom had been told already. I suppose that was good, so I wasn't the one breaking it to her. She's taking it hard, as you can expect, but I promised I'd do what I can from here - that seemed to help, as much as anything can right now. It's more than she got last time, anyway, and she said so. I also talked to Kathleen; she's in San Fran right now. She'll be heading over to be with Mom for a while, and then she'll go and tell Nicole. Starfleet won't consider my Dad's assistant as next of kin, but I think she has a right to know."

"Sounds like things are under control, to the extent possible," B'Elanna replied softly. "Let's hope we get something on Bethesda. I'll go and study up on the place, and then head to our quarters. Might as well try and get some sleep; it'll be eighteen hours. You, too, Tom."

Tom released his tight hold and gave his wife a grateful kiss on the forehead.

"Thanks, Bee. And yes, you're right. Guess we won't say anything to Miral, but I have a feeling I'll be needing an extra cuddle tonight."

…..

Bethesda Prime was somewhere between a planet and a planetoid, distinguished mostly by the fact that it was M-class, possessed an atmosphere that was breathable by most humanoid species, and contained water in sufficient quantities to make farming a possibility. The small population was spread across the three largest islands, keeping mostly to the coastal areas; the islands' interior was rugged, mountainous and uninhabited.

A quick scan confirmed what Ayala had said earlier, namely that there were no notable mineral or other deposits that would make the place commercially interesting, let alone economically attractive. If it were to have an economic future beyond sustaining its own population, someone would have to grow a spectacularly attractive local crop and develop a gourmet audience for it, or else discover a pharmaceutically useful plant or fungus. So far, none of that had happened - but the place had only been worked for a couple of decades at best.

The same scan disclosed a web of subterranean caves in the interior mountain range on the second-largest island; traces of plasma and a couple of residual warp signatures suggested that these were in active use.

"Whoever the pirates are, I bet that's where they're hiding," Ayala remarked without a hint of smugness. "Happy to get closer if you want, sir."

"No, let's talk to the locals first," Harry responded. "Get permission for action, if needed. Remember – non-interference, and that includes barging into a pirates' lair. Coulthard, bring her down in the main town and then keep scanning the atmosphere for other traffic while we're gone."

The junior pilot set the Delta Flyer down on a small shuttle field near the centre of the main settlement, imaginatively named Bethesda Town. The landing field showed clear signs of neglect. While the space was clear, the surface was well on its way to being reclaimed by a scrubby-looking ground cover that seemed to dominate the landscape. There was no sign of perimeter security, a customs station, or any of the other standard trappings of most working spaceports, however small and remote. A series of small hovercraft - obviously the preferred method of transport between the islands - ringed the field, two dozen or so machines of considerable vintage and in varying degrees of repair.

Voyager's crew had tried to give notice of their impending arrival, but either there was no central comm system, or the authorities (such as they were) had not bothered staffing it on a full-time basis. By refusing to answer the Flyer's hails, the locals had ensured that the away team could claim they were not prohibited from landing, but neither could they predict what welcome they might receive.

It was clear that the place did not receive many visitors; within minutes, what had to be a sizable percentage of the local population had arrived at the landing site to greet the new arrival. Harry noted with some relief that they seemed curious and wary, but not overtly hostile.

Dressed in rough, simple clothing, the four men and two women reminded Harry of the denizens of a 19th century American frontier town he and Tom had created on the holodeck, just before Tom's Leprechaun Period. One look around at the wood-and-clay structures, the dirt roads and the cattle pen at the edge of the landing area confirmed that Bethesda Town was about as basic as it got, beyond the fringes of the Federation. But for the hovercraft and knowledge about how the colonists had gotten here in the first place, the Flyer's presence could have been a direct violation of the Prime Directive.

Harry cast a quick look at B'Elanna and Ayala, who had exited the Flyer right behind him. B'Elanna's eyes were darting about as she looked for, and analyzed, evidence of the presence and use of technology in this backwater. Ayala was studying the small delegation of four men and two women with an interest that bordered on fascination; maybe for him they were specters from a past so far removed that their presence was both reminder and validation of its existence.

"That one," he breathed in Harry's ear, nudging his chin in the direction of one the colonists. "Their leader."

How Mike had spotted the man among his compatriots as the one to watch Harry had no idea; but once he had, there was no doubt in Harry's mind that the big Lieutenant was correct. The man appeared to be half-Bajoran, half human. He stood straight but loose, his countenance wary but confident - a man used to careful analysis and decisive action.

"Sir," Harry addressed himself directly to him, not giving any indication as to why, and not awaiting any introductions. "Lieutenant Commander Harry Kim, First Officer, USS Voyager. Our Chief Engineer, Commander B'Elanna Torres and Security Chief, Lieutenant Mike Ayala. We've come to make a few inquiries …"

"Wait." The man held out his hand. "Did you say Torres and Ayala?"

Harry nodded, first in response to the man's question, and then to B'Elanna and Mike, giving them tacit permission to respond. Things was going better than expected already, if their names elicited a reaction this soon.

"Yes," B'Elanna answered, while Ayala maintained his preferred, customary silence and just nodded. "Formerly with Chakotay's cell of the Maquis. We fought in the campaign against Gul Evek in the Badlands. And you are…?"

The man gave her an appraising look, running his eyes up and down her uniform before doing the same to Ayala. He seemed for the moment at least content to ignore Harry.

"Cumming Rik," he said. "Mayor of Bethesda Town. I've heard about you folks. You were caught by Starfleet, disappeared for a while and stood trial when your ship came back. Some of the folks here followed the trial. Well, sort of. Newsvids get here only sporadically, when the comms array is working. Which it ain't right now."

That explained the absence of a response, then. Not bothering to correct Cumming on the exact sequence of events, Harry decided to reassert his authority as leader of the away team. There were also some important points to be registered.

"Yes, and as a result of that trial, all the Maquis were exonerated, from all but genuinely criminal acts. I assume that some of the people in your town are here as a result."

Cummings straightened a little, almost bristling, and Harry wondered whether it had been a smart thing to be quite so blunt about putting his cards on the table. Diplomacy had never been his strong suit; he resolved to do better. Then again, they had little time to waste.

"If they're Maquis, why are they wearing Starfleet uniform?" Cumming asked, with a sharp nod of his head, directing his question at Harry.

Clearly, Cumming's preference, for whatever reason, was to speak leader to leader – or else he wanted to eliminate whatever bargaining leverage the two famous former Maquis fighters might otherwise give the landing party.

B'Elanna obviously assumed the latter and decided to seize the floor. Harry silently approved; he was very aware, moreover, that on a matter as personal as this she would not let anyone speak for her in any event – not even him.

"Because in the course of seven years of displacement in the Delta Quadrant, I learned to appreciate Starfleet for what it is, and found the people who serve it both trustworthy and reliable," she replied simply, but firmly. "So when they offered me a job after we got back and were cleared, I accepted. This is my life now."

A couple of the other colonists nodded and whispered amongst themselves, one of them even smiled tentatively at B'Elanna and Mike, but none spoke up. While they clearly had their own view of matters, they seemed content to leave the talking to Cummings – for now, at least.

"So what does … Starfleet want here?" Cummings challenged.

The mayor's unquestioned authority clearly would have made him the appropriate interlocutor for Owen Paris' mission; he would likely have been aware of it already but for the broken comms array. Taking a gamble, Harry decided to go beyond the talking points he and Tom had discussed.

"As I'm sure you're aware, the Federation is interested in rapprochement with the worlds of the Belt, and has been sending diplomatic missions into the region to explore options. One of those missions was headed by Admiral Owen Paris. He was supposed to be coming here."

He allowed the name to sink in and was gratified to see a gleam of recognition and a couple of nods among some of the members of the group – the same ones who had reacted to his introduction of B'Elanna and Ayala. The two women whispered amongst each other excitedly; obviously the news of Federation interest in their colony was not unwelcome. Cumming Rik, for his part, kept a poker face, waiting for the more that he knew would come.

B'Elanna supplied it n Harry's behalf.

"The same Owen Paris who testified at those Maquis trials you mentioned." She hesitated for a moment, then added in a softer voice, "My father-in-law."

Harry took over from her seamlessly.

"I'm sure you're also aware that there's a growing problem with piracy in this region. It appears that Admiral Paris' shuttle was attacked, and that he was taken hostage."

Cumming's intense, pale grey eyes fixed on Harry's face. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking – _that_ he was thinking was in absolutely no doubt.

"And what, exactly, does that have to do with us here on Bethesda Prime?" he asked mildly.

Harry was perfectly happy to let B'Elanna respond, and have her an encouraging nod. Not that she needed it.

"We traced the vessel that intercepted his to Bethesda Prime. So what we'd like to know is - do you know of any places on your planet where we might start looking?"

Her phrasing was pitch perfect; any response would imply permission. Harry suppressed a smile. Whoever said B'Elanna's talents were limited to the engine room?

One of the women – tall, fairer than Tom and strongly built, in worn but clean dungarees - made as if to speak but was quelled by an almost imperceptible headshake from Cumming. Clearly, he intended to keep the reins of the discussion.

"If there is a pirate base on Bethesda, it exists without our knowledge and support. We are simple farmers, trying to make a living, hoping to make this place into something we can give to our children with pride. We have no wish to get involved in criminal activity."

And there it was: The expected brush-off – but no outright denial, either. (And who had said anything about a base?)

"Mind if we look around a bit though anyway?" There it was – the direct request. Harry gave the man his most trust-inspiring, straightforward look.

Cumming stood still for a good long time, thinking and weighing his options. One of the other men leaned into him and whispered in his ear, the words "better this than …" carrying across to the away team; another scowled silently then schooled his features back into impassivity. Cumming gave a short nod.

"Fine, you can have a look around. I assume you have all sorts of fancy gadgets onboard that little beauty over there, which will enable you to find stuff without any assistance from us? Because we can't offer any."

Harry found himself forced to revise his assessment of Cumming's astuteness ever upward. The man, it appeared, knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

If there was a base on Bethesda, it was likely someone in that little group of community leaders would report back everything that was said to those who would use the colony as their safe haven. Cumming was walking a careful tightrope – between not attracting the ire of thugs likely armed far better than these farmers, and, as he had put it, trying to turn Bethesda into something the colonists could give to their children with pride.

He had essentially tipped the Voyager crew off to the presence of a base, but without overtly seeming to and without offering any direct help. At the same time, he had established for the benefit of whoever was taking notes – probably the scowling man - that whatever discoveries the unwanted guests might make, would be inevitable in any event, thanks to Starfleet's superior technology. Plausible deniability, to counter whatever pressures he and the little colony he was responsible for might be under. The man would make a fine partner for the Federation, should that day ever come. In the meantime, Bethesda clearly needed a sheriff, as Ayala had put it in one of their briefings, to carry out some major cleanup operations in those vermin-infested hills.

"One thing though – we can't have you snooping around our planet without escort," Cumming added blandly, before turning to his compatriots. "Volunteers?"

"I can go." The woman in the dungarees stepped forward smoothly, and without hesitation. "Jacob brought the crops in yesterday, and no one will miss me for a couple of hours."

Cumming nodded his approval, as did all but one of the other members of the Bethesdan delegation. _The pirates' watchdog,_ Harry dubbed him in his mind.

"Thanks, Jaen," Cumming said. "You do that, and come back to report to the Council after."

The silent man finally opened his mouth. "Don't think that's a good idea, mayor. Helpin' these folks out, I mean. Who knows what they're up to. Nuthin' to say they be tellin' the truth about that Paris guy."

"Your concern is noted, Sid. But who said anything about helping out? Jaen will go to keep an eye on them, make sure they don't go where they shouldn't." He gave the man a meaningful stare.

"Besides, we want to appear to be helpful, or they'll just come back anyway. Right?"

The man grunted, apparently appeased, and resumed his silent but watchful stance. Cumming added, in a tone that could be interpreted as anything from reluctantly cooperative to outwardly threatening, "You've got an hour. Consider this a debt paid."

The three officers nodded in agreement, B'Elanna adding a succinct _thank _you, and headed back to the Flyer. The woman Jaen followed close behind, her eyes darting everywhere as she took in the sleek lines and immaculate exterior of the shuttle with evident admiration, and no little envy. Her shoulders remained tense, as if she could feel the flinty gaze of the recalcitrant delegation member on her retreating back.

But no sooner had the Flyer lifted off from the over-grown landing field that she relaxed and turned to B'Elanna. Her gaze was direct, and clear, her voice succinct.

"My name is Jaen Sigurðsdóttir. I am the wife of Jacob Vadim, a former Maquis cell leader who was released from prison following your father-in-law's testimony. We used a grant from the Restoration fund to move our family to Bethesda last year. I understand that Admiral Paris' son, who I presume is your husband, made substantial personal contributions to that fund. What do you need to know?"

"Whatever you can give us," B'Elanna said, holding out her hand to the woman. "And by the way, this is the shuttle that paid for our contribution to the Restoration Fund. My husband designed it, and myself and Har… Commander Kim here helped him build it. Good to see the money went to such good use."

Jaen, clearly a woman with little time for sentimentality, however fierce her sense of loyalty and indebtedness, took this in stride. She acknowledged the information with a simple nod and went over to the conn.

"You want to head to the small island," she instructed Coulthard firmly. North East coast, there's a bay with a small peninsula sticking into it. D'you see it?"

The young pilot nodded and, without awaiting for confirmation from Harry, and tapped a few commands into the helm.

"Wait a minute," Harry interrupted. "We were under the impression that the base would be in the caves on the second island."

Jaen gave him a measured gaze.

"It is. I'm taking you to meet my son."

…..

It did not take long to hear Jaen's story. Yes, there were at least two rival groups of thugs active on Bethesda, armed with weapons left behind in the sector by the Maquis resistance. For the longest time, both gangs had limited their activities to killing each other, over money and food extorted from subsistence farmers. The colonists were ill equipped to fight back, but had recently found - to their reluctant relief - that the gangs had joined forces and had turned their attention to more lucrative endeavours, off-world.

In the absence of outside assistance Cumming had decreed that their activities would be, if not tolerated, then at least not directly attacked; the colonists simply lacked the means to take action. The hopes of those who valued honest farming over crime were pinned firmly on eventual rapprochement with the Federation, which might provide the colony with the means to strengthen local governance and build their capacity for proper law enforcement.

"All we need is money to pay security forces, and to provide them with weapons and training," she said. "What we need here is the rule of law – all those things the Federation claims to stand for. Judges, prosecutors, lawyers and …." she sighed a little, "_tax collectors_, so we can keep it and pay for it all in the long run. You're looking at a pretty rudimentary society here, Mr. Kim. Lord knows we're trying to build something here, from the ground up. But unless we get help soon, it'll be strictly survival of the fittest. And around here, that means the guys with the guns."

As for her son, Jaen explained with what Harry had come to realize was her customary frankness, he had fallen in with one of the armed gangs for the first year of the family's presence on the planet. With his parents' encouragement – apparently there was also a girl involved, Cumming Rik's daughter - he had cut his ties with them, but was still sufficiently well connected through a couple of close friends that had not taken offence at his defection.

"News as big as the abduction of a Starfleet Admiral and Federation diplomat will get around quickly," Jaen remarked. "These people aren't used to secrecy; they're powerful enough that they don't have to be. So if there's anything to know, Sven will know it. His friends like to brag."

She turned to Harry, and looked him firmly in the eye.

"And you will take that information, buzz the base with that Flyer of yours, and drop me back off in Bethesda Town so I can pick up my hovercraft. And then you will leave."

Harry opened his mouth – at first to protest, but then he thought the better of it. Bethesda's problems were far beyond Voyager to fix. What fragile tendrils of a functioning society that Jaen, Cumming and others like them were seeking to nourish could not be jeopardized by rash, thoughtless action. Bethesda needed people like Kathryn Janeway, with the potential writ of Federation membership behind them. They needed Owen Paris, too …

"Understood," he said simply.

For obvious reasons, the Flyer could not land at Jaen's homestead. She commed her husband from what Harry hoped looked like an aimless recce flight; Ayala beamed Sven aboard on the first pass.

The young man was in dungarees, similar to his mother's, but had obviously come in from tending the family's cattle. An unfamiliar, bracing smell spread through the cockpit and caused Coulthard to stare at their passenger in – fortunately silent - revulsion.

His mother explained to him in a few clipped sentences what was expected from him, and why. Silence, she made perfectly clear to him, was not an option; a family debt was at stake and he was expected to pitch in to clear it. Sven nodded slowly, and Harry watched him scan through the arguments he needed to justify what amounted to a betrayal of his friends. _Blood rules. _

"Whatever you tell us will not leave this shuttle," Harry said firmly, to reassure him. "We will use the information if it's useful, but we won't betray the source. You have my word on that."

And so, hands worrying the sides of his filthy pants, Sven talked as the Flyer criss-crossed Bethesda in a random search pattern. Talked about his friends, and how they'd stayed in touch even though he now focused … mainly … on farming. Talked about how he'd been invited, late the night before, by two of those friends to … celebrate.

He refused to name their names, despite his mother's pointed glare; Harry waved off her request. Names were irrelevant.

"Celebrate what?"

B'Elanna's voice was sharp, and Sven's head flew up. Harry gripped her arm with his hand to keep her level.

"A major hit," Sven said, his breath a little ragged under the heat of B'Elanna's scrutiny.

"Day before yesterday, like. Something about a Federation shuttle, in-and-out job by the sounds of it. Fish in a barrel. The thing blew itself up after, but they'd done taken whatever or whoever was onboard. They wouldn't tell me what – sworn to secrecy, or some such crap – but they came back last night, flush 'n ready to party."

He cast a surreptitious look at his mother, who looked more than a little displeased – if not too surprised – at her son's revelations.

"Flush?" Harry could not help himself, despite his best intentions to let the young man finish his tale in his own time.

"Yeah. You know, latinum."

The three Starfleet officers exchanged confused glances. As far as they knew, the pirates had made no demands for ransom as yet, let alone received it.

"Guess it wasn't the Paris kidnapping, then." Ayala's disappointment was palpable.

" Ain't that much traffic hereabouts, and sure as heck ain't many Federation shuttles. Had to have been your guy."

Sven looked at the big security officer, his eyes betraying his incredulity that someone could be _this_ ignorant of how business worked.

"Well, it's obvious, innit? That hit wasn't about no ransom. The boys was either paid to do it, or else managed to sell your Admiral before they ever came back to Bethesda. Either way, you sure as heck won't find him here."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Elements of this chapter echo events in my previous stories, "Off the Shoulder of Orion" and "Grace". As always, though, I have tried my best to make it unnecessary to have read these.

Thanks, as always, to Runawaymetaphor for allowing me to fly trial balloons at inconvenient times.

**Chapter 4**

The remaining Federation envoys had received unambiguous orders from Starfleet to stand down from their current mission pending further developments; none of the designated diplomats were to venture out in a shuttle until given clearance from Headquarters. Federation vessels in the vicinity were put on standby, pending further orders (and, Tom hoped, developments).

On both Voyager and the Challenger, speculation as to just who might have an interest in acquiring – and possibly commission the abduction of - a Federation hostage dominated discussions. At the request of Admiral Janeway, the two briefing rooms were linked via secure comms for a joint brainstorming session.

"It probably all boils down to business," LaForge suggested from the Challenger. "Assuming your contact on Bethesda is correct - and I guess there's no reason to doubt him – kidnapping for ransom must be a much more developed industry here than we thought, with a centrally-run organization."

"Not necessarily, Captain," Asil chimed in with her impeccable logic. "Perhaps that might be the case in this location, but there has been no indication elsewhere in the Tarikoff Belt that the phenomenon is anything other than local enterprise or that specific interests are being targeted. It seems largely to be a crime of opportunity."

"Icheb's tracking hasn't shown any coordinated movement, or a tendency for ships to head for a particular location, like a transfer point," Harry nodded in agreement.

Tom rubbed his face with both hands, and sighed.

"No, it hasn't, but we've also only just learned that they may have technology to reduce or eliminate warp signature tracing. So for all we know, the trajectories we've been mapping for the last couple of weeks give us only a piece of the picture. Any one of those ships we've marked as suspicious could have been intercepted by a third party at some point, but all we've got is a rough map for the hidey-holes of the foot soldiers. We've got nothing on the people pulling the strings – if they exist."

No one felt it necessary to add, '_And nothing on the whereabouts of Owen Paris and his crew'. _

"And your friends on Bethesda? Any chance they would let us interview any of the … foot soldiers, as Tom called them?"

Kathryn's question was directed at both Mike Ayala and B'Elanna; the former remained silent – unused to speaking in the presence of his former Captain - and looked to the Chief Engineer to respond.

"They're in a difficult position; I don't think they can afford to antagonize the bandits. So I wouldn't recommend we involve them. But that shouldn't stop us from going in ourselves and asking a few questions directly."

That last she said, lifting her chin defiantly as if challenging anyone to contradict her.

"Could be dangerous," Harry noted.

"We're Starfleet. They're basically farmers with pitchforks dressed up to play pirates," B'Elanna said, with an uncharacteristically snide edge for someone who had once fought alongside and on behalf those same farmers. "We've dealt with far worse."

"True. But we can't take any action that might bring us into conflict with the local population," Kathryn interjected forcefully. "_Any_ part of the local population, including its more questionable members. No upsetting delicate internal political balance."

"We're _not _going in, B'Elanna," Tom silenced his wife softly, when he saw her begin to bristle and get ready to protest. "We can't, not without undermining what chance Jaen and her friends may have on joining the Federation. But …" he looked to Kathryn for confirmation, "we _can_ seal the pirates up in their hole, and stop them from going anywhere until they've given us some answers. Right?"

"If by _sealing them up in their hole_ you mean, prevent them from going on any more raids, then yes. We could certainly keep one of our ships in orbit around Bethesda to discourage them, but we won't have the authority to interdict unless there is imminent danger to Federation interests."

Tom thought for a moment.

"The people on Bethesda don't know that, do they?"

Kathryn allowed herself a small smile.

"No, I don't suppose they do."

"So let's be visible then." The grim smile that turned up one of the corners of his mouth was answered by a flash in Kathryn Janeway's eyes. Neither needed to complete his sentence: "_… and see if we can't find some imminent danger to Federation interests._"

Geordi LaForge stared out of the screen with his curiously unmoving eyes, eyes on the logistical requirements, as always.

"We could have the Challenger patrol Bethesda; that would leave your hands free to do other things. We have our orders to run those tests of the transwarp shuttle, but there's no time limit on those. So with Admiral Janeway still onboard, I'm taking the 'standby' order to mean 'stay in the neighborhood'."

Kathryn nodded.

"Yes, and I can use the time to speak to the people Harry and B'Elanna met with, without running the danger of having it look as if they are taking sides. We'll call it a 'formal contact' by the Federation, not the very specific intelligence-gathering visit you had. Just because I can't travel around the Belt in a shuttle anymore, doesn't mean that I have to abandon official outreach mission entirely."

The small, grim smile confirmed to her former crew that her idea of _speaking to the people_ might more closely resemble an inquisition than a polite chat – an assumption that gave no one particular pause, even if it didn't seem entirely consistent with Starfleet's orders to _stand by_.

Tom was spared from any need to comment further by an announcement, in the computer's cheerfully detached voice, that there was an _urgent personal call for Captain Paris from Starfleet Medical Headquarters._

He gestured his officers out of the briefing room with a nod, and undertook to contact Kathryn and Captain LaForge if the news concerned them before signing off. Starfleet Medical, at a time like this, could mean only one thing: Dr. Kathleen Paris, with news about their mother. The call would, most likely, be very personal indeed.

"Stay?" he asked B'Elanna softly. She had not followed the others out; if this was about family, she was no longer the Chief Engineer. Her response was to move behind the desk and to sit down on its edge, close enough to Tom to provide support but outside the range of the comm's field of capture for now.

Kathleen was Tom's senior by a number of years; having chosen a medical career, she had achieved the rank of Commander and was presently the head of the xeno-pharmacological research unit within Starfleet Medical. With the same fair colouring, blue eyes and straight nose, she and Tom were the most physically alike of the Paris children; they had always enjoyed a special bond, despite the age difference and Tom's best efforts to, as Kathleen liked to put it, to be "a total pain in the butt" when she was in her teens. More often than either of them cared to admit, she had interceded on his behalf to protect him from the excessive ambitions of their father - usually without success, but the protective instinct still lingered.

Maybe it was that closeness, or maybe it was the unusual fact that she had called at all - reaching out to one another was not the Paris way, particularly not in the midst of a crisis where everyone was expected to keep their professional focus. Whatever it was, something told Tom the moment Kathleen's face materialized on the screen that something – _something_ _else_ - was very, very wrong.

"What is it, Katie?" he asked simply, confident that she would understand he was not speaking about their father at this moment. _That _was a matter being handled elsewhere (or not). As expected of a Paris, she got straight to the point.

"It's Nicole, Tom. She's dead."

"_What_?"

It was not the most articulate of responses, and it came out in a rasp. But for the moment it was all Tom's vocal chords could produce, based on very limited input from a mind seized by a sudden tsunami of images.

_Nicole - _his father's assistant from the day he had joined the admiralty. Fearless, smart, determined, utterly loyal. Legendary in Starfleet circles as the Woman Who Knows Everything (And Has Something On Everyone). Most importantly, though, Nicole had for years served as the human link between Owen and his family, whenever he was unable or unwilling to acknowledge that there was a life beyond his duty to Starfleet. To Julia Paris and her three children, she was family.

To Tom, she was … the one who had reached out to him in Auckland, at a time when he had hit rock bottom and had been ready to surrender himself to the darkness. That he was alive and able to accept Kathryn Janeway's offer to take him aboard Voyager was a debt he owed to Nicole – a debt perhaps greater than the offer itself.

Tom's eyes were dry and he felt B'Elanna's hand on his shoulder, but he could not – nor would he try to - cover the break in his voice when he uttered his next word.

"How?"

He could tell by the tightness around Kathleen's jaw, and the way she crossed her arms and clamped her fingers under her armpits as if to ward off a debilitating cold, that she was barely holding herself together.

"She was murdered, Tom. I commed her to tell her about Dad. There was no answer, which you'd know would be totally out of character, regardless of where she was and what she was doing at the time. So I checked, and verification showed that she hadn't left her quarters in several days. I went over to her apartment immediately. She gave me the access code years ago … in case."

Kathleen took a deep breath, almost a sob, before continuing, but the telling – probably not for the first time, investigators would have interviewed her repeatedly – seemed to anchor her a little as she continued speaking. But not enough. Never enough.

"I expected the worst, but not … what I found. She was laying there, Tommy, in a pool of blood. Her throat had been cut and … things had been done _ante mortem_."

Tom let out a hissing breath even as B'Elanna's nails dug painfully into his shoulders, although he did not feel the pain. Kathleen no longer bothered to suppress the tears; still, she continued, the seemingly well-rehearsed words at odds with the shaking voice that gasped them out.

"Her apartment was a complete mess, although there was no sign of forcible entry. The investigators think she let someone in, possibly someone dressed in a Starfleet uniform. She wouldn't just let anyone else in, would she, Tommy? I mean, she was so careful all the time. And they … whoever it was, security thinks they probably made her give them the location of whatever valuables or information they were after. Although I looked, and there didn't seem to be anything missing. Even the Kylarian vase Daddy gave her was still there, and it's right out on her dresser. I told them that."

Tom could hear by the anger that started to creep into his sister's voice now that she had a theory.

"Information?" he asked, focusing on the facts rather than the impact of what he had heard. _Forward. Look forward. Don't … imagine._

"Her terminal was activated around the time that's been established as probably time of death."

Ah. The cold hand that had been keeping a hold of Tom's insides throughout the exchange twisted his gut a little harder.

"Dad's itinerary."

Kathleen nodded, the tears now stopped. "She would have had information about his routing, I'm sure of it. But there's no way to tell for certain; the data was wiped by an expert. All the investigators could determine was the last time of activation of the terminal itself."

"Is there any indication as to the perpetrators? Fingerprints? Security recordings?" B'Elanna, always the practical one.

Kathleen shook her head. "Nothing that Starfleet has been able to trace."

But then she took a deep breath, and her next words were very careful.

"There is something, Tommy. But it could be nothing."

There was an undercurrent in her voice that caused both B'Elanna and Tom to look at each other.

"What is it?" Tom asked cautiously.

"I … I think Nicole may have tried to tell us ... Dad, or you … something. Before she died. But …"

"But?"

"It means you have to look at a picture, Tommy. It's … really hard to look at. You … may not want to."

Tom swallowed, and set his jaw. He understood now why it had been Kathleen who had made this call – to give him the out, if he wanted it, or else to make sure he was prepared to see what he needed to. Still, after all these years, her first instinct was to protect her little brother from harm.

But if Nicole had tried to pass a message to someone he, of anyone she had ever known, owed her a duty to attempt to read it. Kathleen knew this, too.

"Show me."

Kathleen gave him a lingering look before turning sideways to punch a few commands into her console, and initialized transfer of the requisite image. Her voice was firmer now, the hardest parts of her self-imposed task behind her.

"I think her message is in that code she told you about when you were little. You know, the one you and your friend Harry played with in that black-and-white holovid thing of yours. Here it is."

Tom heard a hiss of breath from B'Elanna, and felt himself suppressing a wave of nausea as the image appeared on the screen in his ready room.

A small, grey-haired figure, splayed on a tiled floor, a pool of dark, partly dried blood surrounding her like an obscene halo. The image, likely from a camera held by one of the investigators on the scene, zoomed in on a pale hand, clenched in death above a pool of dark blood, the index finger still reaching forward, pointing. Pointing at the last conscious act of a woman bound to duty and loyalty, until the end – a message written in blood where she knew her voice would fail.

_Three darkened dots, in a row._

"The letter S, in Morse code."

Tom's voice was scratchy, but firm.

"Yes, that much we figured out at this end. But does it mean anything to you, Tom? Some kind of signal or word you and Nicole may have come up with when you were little?"

Tom shook his head. "No. She introduced me to the code itself, because she knew I was interested in this kind of thing and she was a bit of a history buff herself. But we never used it for anything."

He thought for a long moment. _S. _No relevant names came to mind, no locations, no noteworthy event in the history of Nicole's association with the Paris clan …

"The only thing special about the use of the 's' that I can think of is that it's the beginning of the old signal for distress – S-O-S. _Save Our Souls. _Three short blips, three long ones, another three short."

"But that doesn't make any sense here, does it, "B'Elanna interjected. "Nicole must have known at this point that she was dying, and that there was no one who would see a signal for help. Not until after she was gone."

Both Tom and Kathleen nodded in agreement. Nicole had never been anything other than matter of fact; she wouldn't have made an exception for her own death. B'Elanna continued, thinking out loud for the three of them.

"So what else could she have tried to tell your Dad? She probably suspected they were going after him, assuming it _was_ the itinerary they had come for. It must have been something about her attackers. Something she thought Dad would need to know."

Tom chewed his lower lip in thought, wishing Tuvok were onboard. His impeccable logic had solved more than one crime while Voyager was in the Delta Quadrant; sure he would know …

He forced himself to look at the frozen vid again. Three dots, in a row. _Commander's pips. Ellipsis?_

No. An image. A familiar image. _Zoom back, see it from a distance_.

The truth was a punch to his gut, a blade to his throat.

"It's not Morse code. But it's definitely a message."

Nicole had named her killers as surely as if she had recorded their names. And knowing that she would be too late to help the Admiral she had served for so long, the message she had left as her life ebbed away had been for his son.

A warning.

"Those three dots … They're the stars in the belt of Orion."

…..

"You have to tell Starfleet." B'Elanna's voice was firm, and uncompromising.

"And they'll do what? Tell me to _stand down_, like they did Janeway?"

"It's the safest thing to do, Tom." On the screen, Kathleen Paris, stunned into silence, nodded in agreement.

"Safe for whom? Dad? Who was abducted – if not killed – because these … these criminals want to get to _me_?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Tom Paris. What makes you think this is about you?"

Tom fixed his wife's eyes with a baleful blue-eyed stare. _He knew. Why didn't she?_

"Please. You heard what they said in the threat assessment. Why they sent me out here, to the armpit of the Alpha Quadrant, to begin with."

But B'Elanna was not so easily deterred.

"For all we know, this really _is_ about the Federation trying to gain influence and control in the Tarikoff Belt. The Syndicate's been trying to expand beyond Orion for some time – first the Snowflakes, then Talar and Denaros. Infiltration, destabilization, domination. And yes, so you interfered with their plans both times. That doesn't mean they care about you personally as much as they do about their goals."

"It also doesn't mean that they're above exacting revenge."

"No. But if anything, anything that might bring you within striking range is more likely just a fringe benefit."

Talking through his fixed glare now, she added, "And how are they going to get to you through your Dad anyway? Do you think they're going to ask you to offer yourself up in exchange? That would make no sense whatsoever. As a Federation envoy, Owen is a lot more valuable than you are, revenge or no."

"But if that's what they want, they can score their point – about the Federation being vulnerable here, and this place being too high risk for membership – _and_ get their hands on me - and possibly the Cap … Admiral Janeway - all at the same time."

"I guess we'll have to wait until they make a ransom demand then, don't we?"

B'Elanna's frustration – and anger, at Nicole's senseless death and the danger Owen Paris was in (if he was, in fact, still alive) started to register in her voice, and in the way she balled her fist.

"I guess we do." Tom's eyes narrowed a little. "But we don't have to do nothing."

He turned to Kathleen, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, following it with keen interest and no desire to draw attention to the fact that she was still there, listening in.

"Katie, I need you to do me a favour. Don't tell Starfleet about our theory quite yet. I want … I need to do some more thinking about what that might mean, talk things over with my crew and Admiral Janeway, and maybe make some decisions at this end _before_ some eager bureaucrat makes them for us and fences us in."

Kathleen opened her mouth as if to protest, and Tom intensified the pleading look in his eyes. Years of practice of being the little brother, and it came down to this.

"Can you do that, Katie? Keep your mouth shut, I mean? You used to be good at keeping my secrets. All I ask for is a day or two. Please?"

She pinched her lips together in an expression B'Elanna recognized as one Tom always gave when he had to do something unpleasant, or been given an idiotic order.

"Fine," she pressed out. "They know I've contacted you. You have forty-eight hours, and then I'll tell them that you have a different theory. In the meantime, you simply don't know what the Morse Code 'S' stands for."

"Thanks Katie," Tom said earnestly. They spent another few moments discussing the logistics of Nicole's memorial service, and how their mother was holding up, but it was clear to both of them that there were things to be done and she signed off with a "Be careful out there, Tommy".

Tom nodded and tapped the internal comm link.

"Lieutenant Ayala and Commander Kim to my ready room, please."

B'Elanna lifted her head in surprise.

"What … what do you want with Mike?"

Tom's lips were thin, and his jaw set in its most stubborn line.

"The Orions seem to know a great deal about the Paris family, and how we do things. It's time for us to learn something about them."

The door swished open; Ayala must have been at his console, while Harry had been holding the bridge in Tom's absence.

"Sir?"

Mike Ayala was the consummate security officer – never presuming anything, always ready for everything. Harry said nothing, but studied Tom's face carefully before sending a brief frown of concern with B'Elanna to which she responded with a minute shrug.

Tom wasted no time with explanations. His jaw tight, he went straight to the point.

"Are you still in touch with Lemarr, Mike?"

Ayala's face twitched a little as he obviously was torn between frowning at the unexpected question, and smiling a little at the thought of the young Orion dancer, who had hitched a ride on his back through Voyager's transporter in order to escape her life as a 'slave girl'. He settled on a blank look, and a "Yes?" that was sufficiently drawn out to include an unspoken, "Why on Earth do you ask?"

"Good." Tom nodded. "I need to talk to someone who knows from the inside what might make the Orion Crime Syndicate and its leadership tick."

"There's lots of information in the computer data banks, Tom," Harry chided softly. "I doubt that there's anything she would know that Starfleet doesn't already. And Lemarr has been formally debriefed."

Tom turned a pair of uncharacteristically cold eyes on his best friend.

"I'm not looking for factual information on the hierarchical structure of the Syndicate, or on its known bases of operations. I'm looking for things that no one ever thinks to ask for or record, because they don't scream that they might matter. Intangible stuff. Quirks. Preferences. I don't know. Stuff _I_ haven't thought to ask yet."

"Like what?" Harry was skeptical, to say the least, and not a little confused.

Tom slammed both his hands down on his desk and snapped, "If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn't have to ask _now_, would I?"

B'Elanna put a hand on his arm – probably not the most professional thing to be doing in what amounted to a briefing session with half of his senior staff, but perhaps what he needed just then. Tom took a deep breath and, without looking at anyone, explained in a very low voice.

"They murdered someone who was very important to me. Someone who mattered a great deal to my family, even though she would never in a million years would have thought so herself. And then they took my father. Dammit, it's like they knew how to push all my triggers. _All_ of them."

He rubbed his face with his hands briefly, as if to wipe away something he wished wasn't there to begin with, before he continued.

"B'Elanna tells me that this isn't about me. She's probably right, and it's all about the Syndicate's expansion business and Federation interference in their plans. But I want to know whether there's something in the way these people think that _could_ mean that it's personal. Because it sure as hell smells like that to me."

_So you want to feel guilty and be able to flagellate yourself with the proper vigor?_ Tom could read the unspoken question in Harry's wide-open face. What Harry said, though, was this:

"And when you find out that it might be personal, then what?"

Tom held Harry's eyes with his for a moment.

"I have absolutely no idea. Yet. But information never hurts. Know thine enemy, and all that. I have triggers. Maybe they do too."

Mike Ayala had been following the exchange like a tennis match, his eyes moving back and forth between the command team, and arrived at his own conclusion. He nodded in that precise way of his, and turned to leave for the bridge.

"For what it's worth, I think you've already pushed some by pissing them off. I'll contact Lemarr."

Tom just nodded his thanks and watched as Mike left. As soon as he had gone, Harry asked the obvious question – the one Mike hadn't, because he didn't need to know in order to do his job.

"Who, Tom?"

Tom didn't really feel like answering just then; perhaps by refusing to mention _Nicole_ and _died_ in the same sentence he could make it less real? But he also needed to inform Kathryn Janeway about the probable link of Owen Paris' abduction to the organization that was after them both; he owed her that and his duty demanded no less. He motioned Harry to stay so he would have to tell the story only once.

In a time of blood, grief, fear and uncertainty, killing two birds with one stone was likely as good as it got.

…..

It had only been a few months since Lemarr's escape from the space station where she had been forced to perform her dancing routines (and more) at her masters' bidding, but those months of freedom had wrought changes that Tom could see even through the haze of his anger and despair. Head held high, shoulders squared, the young Orion woman looked taller than he remembered, and her clear eyes looked straight at him and Ayala.

Tom briefly found himself wondering how long it had taken his own features to lose the imprimatur of Auckland; longer than this, he was sure. But then again, he'd started from the premise that he deserved to be in the hell he'd had to claw out of, and the belief that he was worth less than those around him had been the hardest thing to shed.

In his studies of Earth's nautical history, Tom had come across an essentially ungovernable race of whalers and fishermen that inhabited the North Frisian Islands, a string of emerald beads in the North Sea. Their motto had been, "Lever duad as Slav" – _better dead than a slave_. For the young Tom Paris, those had been mere words (however romantic), in a language that now lived only in memory; later, branded as someone's sentient toy in Auckland, the lesson he had drawn from them was that death was the better option.

But here and now, the truth of that ancient Frisian motto came to him in the form of Lemarr, the young woman who refused to bear the name of the family that had sold her into slavery: defiance made flesh.

"Captain Paris," she said in her lilting accent, the absence of a smile the mark of respect, not deference. "I am honoured."

"The honour is mine," Tom replied and meant it, even as he got straight to the point.

"What I am looking for is two things, Lemarr. The first is this: if someone's on the Syndicate's hit list, what lengths might they go to in order to get to them? Would they take family members hostage, or …" he swallowed with a suddenly dry throat, "or even kill them?"

Lemarr's expressive face turned into a frown as she concentrated on her response.

"You understand that I was lodubyaln, not a member of the Syndicate itself. So I know little from experience. But in our training I heard tell that when Orders are given, those seeking to carry them out wishing to curry favour with the leaders may go to great lengths to find their target."

"Orders?"

She looked at her fingernails, then back at the camera transmitting her image.

"Orders to Kill."

"Ah. Of course. And great lengths means … what, exactly?"

"Exactly, I do not know. But destroying many to reach the one is common, we were told. So is setting a trap, or a lure, in a most elaborate fashion."

Tom and Harry exchanged glances. _A lure._ That was certainly consistent with certain reports from Deep Space Nine.

"Guess that means we can expect ransom demands for your father in the near future, with requests that you be the one to deliver the goods?" Harry whispered. Tom nodded grimly.

"Thanks, Lemarr. That's what we expected to hear. And here's the second thing. I'm sorry if this will be a bit vague. I gather Syndicate members are prepared to die for failure, so their own lives don't seem to be worth much to themselves. Is there anything, though, that matters to them_?_ Can the Syndicate itself be hurt? And I don't mean can it have its interests damaged. I mean … can it be _hurt._"

Lemarr looked to be in deep thought, but she looked straight at the transmitter when she answered.

"The Syndicate? No. It is not one, but many, and has survived for hundreds of years. The people who are the Syndicate? Maybe. It is hard to tell. As you say, these are people who kill themselves rather than fail the Syndicate, or be disloyal to The Lady. What benefit then, in caring for something that is_ not _the Syndicate?"

"You mean the only thing Syndicate members value is the Syndicate itself?" Harry interjected. "That seems kind of … incestuous."

Lemarr frowned a little, the meaning of the word lost on her even as the condemnation it entailed was not.

"For those who choose to serve the Syndicate, for whatever reason, Service – we call it _lodusyuk - _is everything," she said simply, her voice without judgment. "I did not choose Service. I was forced. When you have no choice, it is not true Service."

Tom had no real interest in a discussion on the politics of slavery, but he began to sense that Lemarr's words contained something of importance, and so he asked anyway.

"But being in the Syndicate is about getting others to do what you want, isn't it? I mean, these people are absolutely dedicated to forcing their own way on others. Where exactly does s_ervice_ fit into the equation, when you're trying to run the show?"

Lemarr's soft voice belied the edge of contempt that crept into her eyes as she reflected on what she had escaped.

"For those in the Syndicate, there is no difference between service and power. You rule through service. Lodubyaln – we … they are taught to make others want us to serve them. We rule them, even as we serve. Most of those who become lodubyaln do not wish to play this game, and do not have a choice. But we know and understand it well. Service and power are two sides of the same coin - a balance, always, and the more you understand and embrace the duality, the higher you will rise in the Syndicate. This is why The Lady is always a former _lodubyaln_. She understands slavery, service, power and dominance - in all their shades, from all sides."

Tom and Harry stared at each other in silence; Mike Ayala fidgeted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. Harry found his voice first.

"You're seriously telling me that the head of the Syndicate is a former … _slave girl_?" His voice held a small apology for using the ancient term, the full meaning of which they had only recently understood.

Lemarr nodded, even as Harry shook his head in disbelief.

"Yes. Always. And she will always have a lodubyor by her side."

At the puzzled looks, she elaborated.

"A male slave. It is his honour to serve her, body and soul, in all things. His presence will remind her of who she was, who she is, what she must be. He and the Lady are one, the embodiment of master and servant. It must be so for her to fully serve the Syndicate."

Tom's interest was piqued.

"This … slave. This … lodubyor, you call him? He's important to the Lady, is he?"

Again, Lemarr nodded. "He belongs to her, but without him, she is nothing. Together, they _are_ the Syndicate."

A small, joyless smile started to curl Tom's lips.

"Interesting," he said. He fell silent, brow furrowed, before continuing, slowly as if he was thinking as he spoke.

"Tell me, Lemarr, what do you know of Bella Trix, and the place where the Lady resides?"

Harry stared at him, his eyes narrowing. He had been around Tom Paris for nearly a decade, and developed an uncanny ability to recognize the imminent formation of a hare-brained scheme in his best friend's mercurial brain. Captain or no, Tom's propensity for left-field thinking was a phenomenon that had not seemed to change – for better or worse.

Worse, most likely.

"Tom?" he said, his tone a not-so-subtle warning as he drew the name out into two or three syllables. "What do you think you're getting you up to? We have a highly sensitive hostage taking to deal with here, with potentially serious ramifications."

Ayala, for his part, watched Tom silently, as was his usual habit, with a keen eye that betrayed no judgment. Whatever decision would come, he would implement – competently and loyally, with a minimum of fuss.

"I know, Harry. Believe me, I know." Tom turned back to the screen. "Lemarr?" he asked, as if the interruption had not happened. If there was one thing he had learned from Captain Janeway - however unpalatable that had been when he'd been at the receiving end - it was that not all plans were meant to be shared. At least not right away.

And so Harry spent the next half hour alternately glowering at Tom and listening to Lemarr, as she detailed what she knew of the Kalaor hills and the surrounding marshlands, and of life in the mansion that housed the Lady of Orion and her immediate staff. Rumour and hearsay, not actionable intel – Lemarr had never been there herself – but to Tom, hearing what '_they say'_ in the sing-song of an Orion voice provided flavours and insights that he was convinced no database ever could.

It was with a nod of satisfaction and determination that Tom thanked her for her time, even as his First and Security Officers were left in the dark about what he might want with the rather impressionistic picture they had just been given.

They did not have to wait long.

…..

Tom reached for the comm switch once more and asked the computer to contact the _USS Challenger_. When the face of Geordi LaForge appeared on the screen, Tom looked straight into those curiously unmoving eyes, and came straight to the point.

"Captain LaForge," he said, "I need a favour. That special shuttle of yours."

LaForge gave a sideways glance at someone off-screen, and punched in a couple of commands; the computer view panned back to reveal Admiral Kathryn Janeway in the First Officer's seat beside him.

"You called it," Geordie said to her, with as much of a smile as their current grim circumstances would permit. Then he explained. "She said you'd ask to fly the thing sooner rather than later. Guess it was sooner."

Kathryn, in turn, studied her former pilot's face carefully, keenly aware that this was unlikely to be about a joyride – not while Owen Paris was in mortal danger and Tom's family had lost someone so close. He never could hide much from her; today was no exception.

"You need the speed. What for, Tom?" she asked bluntly.

For Harry, the answer turned out to be far less of a surprise than perhaps it should have been. He almost formed the words with his own lips as Tom spoke, and watched Ayala nod out of the corner of his eyes.

"I'm going to Orion."


End file.
